The Wicked Witch of the North
by Cervantes Diderot
Summary: Fairer a tale could not have been written regarding that day when Robb Stark broke a maiden free of her chains. Though most tales are lies, and Shiera Seastar is no maiden needing rescue. She is a politician with a tongue like a knife, a sorceress with knowledge as dark as earth, and a talent for turning everything into a weapon. The Starks are mere pawns in her game of chess.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: A Maiden in Chains.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

Robb Stark often felt that he was the most dutiful to House Stark's customs of all his siblings, even surpassing Jon. He worshipped the Old Gods fervently, visiting the Godswood once every single morning. When not training in the yards, or assisting his parents with the arduous task of balancing ledgers, he could be found studying the Stark history. Memorizing the names of ancestors whom Robb felt both pride and shame for. This dedication to the legacy which coursed through his veins was perhaps the reason he knelt dutifully in the Crypts of Winterfell on a very cold day. Every fortnight the heir of Eddard Stark would spend an entire day sharpening the, more salvageable, blades of his forefathers.

This was a time of reflection, an opportunity to lose himself in the memory of ancestors long deceased. A small part of Robb even hoped that, perhaps, by doing such a splendid deed he might one day be remembered by his own grandchildren. Torch flickering, reaching out occasionally to sweep cobwebs from glowering statues he noticed something strange. In an almost absent minded haze the Lordling managed to get rather lost. Trapped inside of the lowest levels of the crypts where the ceilings were sinking beneath eons of burdensome pressure. Black curls coated with dust he blinked about with those Tully-blue eyes for some indication of his location. "Gir-," Robb enunciated slowly, "No. Walton Stark?" That disintegrating name was ancient beyond belief, outdating the only other Walton Robb knew of by centuries at least.

Sighing at this unfortunate predicament that frustrated gaze noticed something very strange. Hidden behind the dense manse of cobwebs based upon King Walton's statue was the distinct glimmer of something very red. Using the torch Robb removed this visible barrier with a disgusted frown. Slipping into the crevice he recognized various patterns etched into the stone, yet the layers of dust were so thick that a hand needed to be run across the surface. Circling the large, ruby orb was the partial depiction of a dragon, snarling and fearsome. Words were also present though they looked nearly faded beyond comprehension. Something scrawled in a language not familiar to him. In a curious manner he reached upwards to poke the faded gemstone. "Aah," Robb gasped when the thing pushed backwards triggering an ominous grinding noise. With an explosion of dust the wall rushed open as though it were some sort of door.

Waiting long enough for the flame to rise back to a steady level he stepped inside very slowly. There were millenia-old whispers of the secrets hidden inside of Winterfell, especially the crypts. Some were absolutely false, others held a kernel of truth, while most were long forgotten having faded into the mists of time. Robb wondered nervously if he somehow managed to stumble upon one of Brandon the Builder's terrifyingly complex contraptions. A torture room, perhaps. The first thing he noticed were the various vessels. Boxes, crates, trunks, chests, and even boudoirs were packed into the surprisingly massive cell. Patchy, stone walls rose higher than the torchlight could reach leaving an inky-black cloud overhead. Shivering, Robb Stark passed more richly decorated, grime-coated containers prior to making a discovery that would change his life.

A shout of surprise broke into the air, echoing loudly throughout the crypts. There was another dragon carving, sprawling and fearsome, etched into the wall. Littered with more rubies it extended from wingtip to wingtip, fangs to claws. In the center of this shocking scene was the most beautiful woman Robb could ever recall having seen, or even read of. Despite the foul concoction of dust and grime which coated her body there was still a sort of unearthly luminescence that clung to her milky skin. Golden-silver cascades of hair tangled around her naked thighs. Womanly hips led to a willowy waist which in turn led to what even his inexperienced eyes could only think of as the most bewitching pair of breasts in Westeros. After admiring this strange woman's gorgeous, heart-shaped face, Robb found himself descending into a horrified realization.

There were tarnished, silver chains wrapped tightly about her nude body, and both hands were staked into the wall by rusty spikes. Robb rushed forth without thinking. Only wanting to release this ethereal creature from such a wretched suspension, so that he might embrace her loveliness in both arms. With no small bit of effort those manacles were pried apart allowing a limb at a time to swing free. The spikes were a much more difficult undertaking. Using every bit of his strength the Lordling ripped one free only to find himself staring at the next. Face turning redder than a berry he emitted a large groan, tugging until the final piece of metal was twisted free from her flesh. Gagging at the dishonorable atrocities committed against a woman Robb pulled her into his arms.

Through the Crypts of Winterfell Ned Stark's heir marched skillfully, focused only on finding Maester Luwin. In fact, he was so absorbed with this task that none of the odditties could be considered. Namely how a woman so viciously imprisoned in the Crypts of Winterfell still had a pulse. Finally they broke into the courtyard where every pair of eyes present were drawn to the peculiar scene. Despite the gloom sunlight still managed to strike down upon the filth-covered pair. As soon as Robb's feet touched down on the cobbles outside of the crypt the woman jerked violently.

Green and blue, sapphire and emerald respectively, peered upwards at him prior to rolling backwards.

OOOO

Robb found himself sitting next to her bed often over the course of the next month. She was a comatose wreck, Maester Luwin claimed, who suffered from strange conditions he found quite unnatural. Further adding to the peculiarity was the now-guarded vault in the crypts. Far older than this young beauty could ever possibly be, as well as filled to the brim with vessels of exotic items. Delightful gowns of lace and cloth-of-silver, entire boxes of precious jewelry and ivory ornaments, leather books calligraphed and bound by the Maesters of Oldtown took up most of the space, while more was being uncovered with each day. So valuable that large hoard turned out to be that a constant rotation of guards were cycled throughout the crypts every day.

Fingers knitted beneath his chin the young man watched the rise and fall of her chest while wondering about unknown identities. As usual Robb's mother pointed out what the Stark men were admittedly too clueless to ever acknowledge. That silver-gold hair was the mark of a Targaryen, or any other person of Valyrian descent. Knowing the Lady of Winterfell had danced with Rhaegar Targaryen at a Riverrun banquet prior to Robert's Rebellion, Robb did not question her judgement. Still, this information only wound up leading to even more confusion. What could a woman, presumably a Targaryen woman, have been doing in the crypts? She was no older than twenty, and even if a mere bastard of Aerys, Rhaegar, or some Velaryon, much too pretty to have slipped through the cracks. No, Robb thought to himself, this young woman could have been gifted to some humble Lord.

He forced himself to move over towards the window at this point. Septa Mordane refused to go anywhere near the comatose woman after having heard rumors of sorcery. Robb could not blame the smallfolk for jumping to start such rumors, yet he did blame the Septa for her idiocy. In such a situation it was only proper for a recovering girl, such a beauty at that, to be watched over. So the Stark children took it upon themselves. Even Sansa joined in which was a great departure from her normal obedience to Septa Mordane's opinions. "The Drowned God himself put tits on this one," Theon Greyjoy crowed raucously upon slipping into the room. Mentally Robb agreed with his lecherous friend though it would not have boded well to say such.

"Get out Theon," He snapped easily enough, "If you would be so despicable as to speak such of an unwell maiden." Moving quickly Robb sat back down in the chair next to the bedside, so he might better glare at the Ironborn. Theon simply raised both hands in silent submission while his eyes continued to rake over the beauties' prone body. Even beneath pounds of sheets there was still an undeniable luminescence to her. As though a spell were broken the lecher jumped in surprise after Jon elbowed him violently in the side. Appearing from the shadows with a tray of dinner.

"I came with your supper, and to tell you that Arya will be late to her shift tonight. She has to make up for a shoddy day of needlework." With a frown the bastard nodded back into the shadowy hallway. "Theon simply decided to force his company on me. Since none of the serving maids were interested in having his poxed cock." They soon left Robb with the tray and a pounding headache, sniping at one another viciously all the way out. In the silence he sat with both hands propped beneath his chin. Staring out the window at the bright moon above head.

"I was always told," A voice both breathy and sensuous shocked him, "That these breasts were sculpted especially by each of the Seven." He turned to stare as the ethereal creature sat shakily upwards. Tully-blue eyes met with the mismatched pair. "Though the Ironborn are known to copulate with anything that possesses a hole. So I will not take his opinion on such theological matters so seriously."

"You were awake, my Lady?" He blushed, feeling sorrowful that she was forced to listen to Theon's tale.

"Of course," She smiled upwards at him, leaving Robb in a horrifyingly uncomfortable position. This woman was devastatingly beautiful when awake. Before she left him thinking of Old Nan's tale about a maiden locked in some sort of glass coffin. Now, however, with silver-gold hair, and those strange eyes it was clear that any other maiden would be hard-pressed to pose any challenge. All too aware of his sudden hardness, Robb wondered silently if it were not time to take up Theon on his offer of a skilled whore named Ros. So long as this Valyrian beauty inhabited Winterfell the urges would doubtlessly only grow stronger. "I found myself in a strange place, in a stranger bed, with a strange man sitting at my bedside. Was it not common sense to continue with the pretense of unconsciousness to ascertain my surroundings?"

"I suppose," Robb tried to fight the blush at being called a man when he was so clearly not. Her honey sweet voice was so overwhelming that such a feat proved immeasurably difficult. "May I ask your name, my La-."

He found himself cut off upon noticing that those delightful eyes had shifted intently upon the tray of supper. "Would it be overtly impudent of me to ask if I might answer your questions after having eaten? I am feeling famished beyond sufficient description." Without wasting a moment, or waiting for an answer, she gnawed her way semi-violently through the food. Bandage covered hands flashed with more efficiency than could have been expected from the wounds on her delicate palms. At the sight of such savagery Robb found himself even further enthralled. He could not recall having ever met a maiden who did not care what the future Lord of Winterfell thought of their courtesies.

"My brothers must have been angry to lock me away for so long," She admitted callously, "I can feel that the heat of summer is dwindling."

"Pardon, my Lady," Robb ventured cautiously, "But your own brothers put you in the Crypts? How could they do something so cruel?"

A hard look flooded into that strange gaze, "Forgive me, but did you say Crypts?"

"Aye, the Crypts of Winterfell," Here any confidence she seemed to have faded away. "My name is Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully." No recognition seemed to cross the woman's increasingly horrified face. "My Lady, perhaps I should summon Maester Luwin. You look very unwell." She was indeed breathing heavily while that pale skin took on a greenish tinge.

"No, no maesters my Lord," A beseeching look crossed the gorgeous woman's features, "What year is it?" At that question desperation finally seeped into her formerly refined voice.

"Two-hundred-ninety-eight years after Aegon's Conquest," He answered immediately with a concerned expression. She collapsed backwards on the bed in response.

OOOO

Catelyn scurried through Winterfell the next afternoon. Quite unladylike, yet there was nothing that could have been done. According to chatter the mysterious, Targaryen-featured woman whom her son had found in the Crypts was allegedly awake once more. "Move," She snapped stringently at a flat-footed serving girl that struggled to move aside quickly enough. Anything related at all to the Targaryens made for an awful omen ever since Robert's Rebellion. Some Houses might have replaced their dragon banners with those of a stag, but it did not mean they burnt the old ones. So it went without saying that the best course of action would be to do away with anything that might be misconstrued as treasonous. Lest the Lannisters catch wind of a silver-haired girl in Winterfell, and manipulate Robert Baratheon upon House Stark.

Nearing her Lord husband's solar the Lady Stark smoothed her frazzled locks of Tully-auburn. "Let me pass," She snapped at the guards prior to slipping into the large study. Instantly the occupants turned to stare at her surprising arrival. Predictably Ned was stone faced, his typical response to uncomfortable political situations. "I heard word that our guest had awoken, my Lord husband," Catelyn pursued a pretense of courtesy. Calling him by his given name would only undermine the authority of House Stark in the eyes of this woman. Moving to stand beside him in a strategic position which oozed with solidarity.

"We have not discussed anything...Substantial yet," Ned stumbled with the words. Clearly aware that he should remain measured though quite unpracticed with such precautions in his own home.

"You mean," She levelled her gaze firmly at the young woman draped in little more than a black cloak and white gown. "The matter of how this Lady," They would assume the best of her birth until more came to light, "Came to appear inside of our Crypts. Surrounded by, what Maester Luwin called, 'A cache of unprecedented value'."

"Catelyn!" Ned protested predictably, "We do not even know what her name is yet."

"Shiera Seastar, my Lord and Lady Stark," The beauty cut them off, much to their shock. "I considered feigning otherwise, claiming to be a Targaryen bastard. Though from what I hear the Targaryens have recently been ousted by Robert Baratheon. Therefore, I presumed that I might as well give you the courtesy of knowing my true name. Before you behead me for performing sorcery, or some other smallfolk-satisfying explanation for how I wound up in the Crypts."

"That must surely be a lie!" Catelyn was, more than she wished to betray, absolutely flabbergasted. "Shiera Seastar. Last of the Great Bastards, daughter of Aegon the Unworthy, born well before this current century began." So caught up in her relief of having arrived on time the Lady had not noticed Maester Luwin sitting in the corner. Now he interjected.

"I spoke with Lady Shiera at length prior to this meeting. Among her numerous belongings were hundreds of diplomatic documents stamped with the Targaryen insignia and seal," He paused thoughtfully. "She also allowed me to administer a verbal exam of sorts. The Lady was immensely knowledgeable of heraldry, and society of the times from which she claims to hail. I utilized a multitude of texts to verify the accuracy of her knowledge."

"How?" Ned managed to speak the words she could not bring to both of her own all, even Luwin, stared at the Great Bastard carefully after that.

"My brother Brynden Rivers was a sorcerer as you all might well know." Each of the three nodded in agreement, for the Bloodraven was much more famous than her in history. "I often disappointed both Brynden and King Daeron. The two wished that I wed, Brynden even preferring himself over some Tyrell or Tully. I did not feel obliged to sacrifice so much as a mere Great Bastard with virtually no claim to the Iron Throne, especially not after everything I had already done for House Targaryen during the Blackfyre Rebellion." She froze, pretty face wrinkling with enraged furrows. "When Bloodraven caught wind of my intentions to flee for Lys, the home of my mother's family, he informed King Daeron. They vowed to punish me dearly for such a 'betrayal'. I was trapped beneath a powerful spell by my own brothers."

Catelyn halted herself from judging the foolishness betrayed by the young woman in her own story. Even Arya understood to some extent that it was a Lady's duty to marry, but clearly Shiera Seastar had paid dearly for this mistake. Robb described a torturous scene of chains and rusted spikes which were only corroborated by Maester Luwin's description of his patient's troubling injuries. "You have no idea how you ended up in the Crypts of Winterfell? Lady Shiera?" She added the last part as an afterthought, still extremely stunned to be speaking with a woman rumored to have been the greatest beauty Westeros ever saw. Having met Lyanna Stark, Cersei Lannister, Ashara Dayne, and even Rhaella Targaryen made Shiera's loveliness all the more stunning.

"I can tell you more than the Lady Seastar can on that matter, Lady Stark," Luwin stepped over to the desk to confer more effectively with them all. "On a hunch I reviewed any ledgers from the Bloodraven's journey to Winterfell on his way to the Wall. He brought many large wagons with him along the Kingsroad. Only half that number proceeded onwards to Wall, yet there were no records of any significant changes in any inventory registers." A thoughtful pause ensued, "Given the vast quantities of new wealth being excavated from that tomb each day it seems to have been a gross oversight."

"In my time I was involved in many different trades and had a great many… Admirers," Shiera Seastar spoke factually in answer to their unspoken questions. "My duties as an ambassador to House Targaryen led to much wealth. My beauty yielded many gifts. I am merely grateful that Bloodraven did not leave me stranded in a strange time with no assets." Humility and modesty were some of the most vastly underrated weapons in every woman's arsenal, Catelyn thought silently, yet the Great Bastard was employing them with talented ease. Like a dragon feigning innocence until the men lured into her outstretched jaws could no longer hope to escape.

Luwin proved himself just enough a fool to fall for such tricks. "The Lady Seastar speaks no justice of the true role she played in Daeron Targaryen's government." The Maester set a stack of yellowed, ancient, official documents before Ned who initially gave them a cursory glance. That glance caused an immediate change in his demeanor as he eagerly tore through the papers with his grey eyes. Catelyn did not harbor any misgivings about reading them herself as her husband set them aside.

Now it seemed that her initial impression of Shiera Seastar was correct. This Princess, born to a King nearly a century dead, had been a ruthless administrator in her half-brother's early tenure as ruler of Westeros. Her claims of a mere involvement in only matters of trade had been misleading to say the least. From what the Lady of Winterfell could surmise this gorgeous Targaryen had had a hand in nearly every aspect of the Small Council. Each of the papers detailed endeavours in affairs which ranged from the royal finances to oversight of state intelligence. She already knew that her husband would spare this woman a death in King's Landing, though Catelyn hoped Ned was doing so because he saw the sheer value in keeping such a woman close.

Lady Shiera's entire family was dead, a jaw dropping hoard of wealth which technically belonged to her resided in the Crypts, and she had contributed a great deal towards the development of King's Landing into a major power. They would shelter her, Catelyn decided, and make what use they could of such an astute mind. Of course there would be whispers of the sorcery which led to her unnatural longevity, but the political benefits surely outweighed such minimal ramifications. Already Hoster Tully's daughter was plotting and considering what might happen if they wedded the Great Bastard to Wyman Manderly, or ordered her to construct another Northern port. One that could rival King's Landing.

"I cannot send you to King's Landing," Ned finally spoke, wrenching his wife from her feverish machinations. "Knowing King Robert that would certainly result in an underserved execution. Then there is the strange matter of proper courtesies. You are no longer the daughter of a King, though you were once of enough societal esteem to be kept as a ward. I am incapable of determining how to place you within my household."

"Recently I have begun to consider that Sansa will soon outpace Septa Mordane's teachings," Catelyn remarked easily, filling in the cracks where Ned's uncertainty showed. That was no lie either, for the Septa's time truly had come to an end. Sansa, at the mere age of nine, was already more courteous than half the Noblewomen in Westeros. Yet Hoster Tully's daughter understood that there was an even more important step to be made. Before Edmure's birth she had been raised like the heir to Riverrun, and had fared all the better for it.

Her darling Sansa was already shaping into one of the most desirable maidens in all of Westeros, perhaps even beyond. Politics were vital to function ably in such prominent capacities, and who better to instruct her daughter than a woman who practically operated King's Landing during the Blackfyre Rebellion. "Arya could do to well spend another year or so learning the intricacies of propriety," By the Seven could that not have been more true, "But Sansa gains nothing from being held back. I recommend that Lady Shiera fill in as a governess. Then when she has spare time we can have her assist Maester Luwin with his duties." Sansa would surely prove capable of endearing the former Princess to House Stark, and Luwin would test just how capable Shiera Seastar really was.

"That does seem to be a befitting arrangement for a woman of your stature, Lady Seastar," Ned agreed, knowing better than to buck against his wife's suggestion. Talks soon devolved into more trivial matters regarding Shiera Seastar's accommodations, as well as the complete transfer of her wealth to the Winterfell treasury for safekeeping. Catelyn Stark simply eyed the Targaryen beauty cautiously the whole while. Eager to put her abilities to use, but still wary of the immensely enigmatic air which surrounded her person. Though the 'younger' woman simply continued with that innocent pretense in response.

As though nothing would make her happier than to play a Northern nursemaid.

OOOO

Next Chapter: The Future.

 _I am going to be honest and say that this fiction is really just going to be a lot of wish fulfillment for me. Read if you want, but don't get pissy over the direction it starts to go. Furthermore, I am aging all of the characters up a bit except for Rickon really. Not too sure by how much, but it will be a bit more appropriate than in the books._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: The Future.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

Sansa Stark could hardly believe her luck. The giddy excitement would have certainly shone through on her face if it were not such a decidedly undignified expression. She could hardly comprehend that only a year had passed since Lady Seastar was found in their Crypts, and consequently proved herself an honorary member of House Stark. Not only had the Great Bastard replaced Septa Mordane as Sansa's tutor, as well as Arya's far more recently, but she had become something of an economic advisor to the North as well. Every task that was sent Shiera Seastar's way she dissected with dauntless glee. Hence, why the pair found themselves nearing the walls of White Harbor.

"Remember that we are not dealing with Flints, or Glovers, my dear girl," Shiera whispered as the gates opened, referencing their prior trips in the North. Despite only being at most twelve years older than Sansa the woman always exuded a calm, motherliness that never failed to comfort. "The Manderlys are your Lord father's most loyal bannermen, yet they are Southron through-and-through. They play well enough at politics. Do not let them think you a pawn." The girl gave a stringent nod in response, though smiled with deceptive brightness at the arrival of their escort all the same.

"My Ladies," An overweight Manderly tottered towards them after plopping off of his horse, "I am Wendel Manderly, son of Lord Wyman. It is my pleasure to open our gates for a delegation of Winterfell." Sansa noted how his piggish eyes clung lustfully upon Shiera's buxom form, only to glance upon her in a similar manner. She was used to her father's bannermen attempting to wile her attentions away in their directions. It was hardly an unforgivable offense, and she recalled Shiera explaining that such regards were indicative of influence.

Keeping that firmly in mind she smiled genially at the spare heir of White Harbor. "Your hospitality has been duly noted, Ser Wendell. Both Lady Shiera and I greatly appreciated the additional forces House Manderly sent to bolster our procession." A truly unneeded consideration with the two-hundred Stark-men her father had already sent along, honestly, though still worthy of praise all the same. "Now," She clapped with enthusiasm that certainly was not disingenuous, "I find myself quite eager to see what beauty these gates are hiding from us." Plenty of splendor, it was later proven, hid within White Harbor.

While Shiera enquired with Ser Wendel about the imminent arrival of the Lyseni party, Sansa admired all the sights. She waved winningly at the peasants who crowded the fish markets for a glance at the procession. In between buildings the eldest daughter of House Stark spotted the beautiful, cold ocean beyond. Noting the Seal Rock her First Man ancestors had manned millenia before, now used to ward pirates from the fifth largest port in Westeros. Then there was the Wolf's Den which once belonged to the Greystarks, whom her forefathers had righteously put to the sword. Built against that ancient prison was New Castle, towering from the very top of the hill. Hiding a sigh Sansa prepared herself for the careful exchange of words and courtesies which awaited inside.

No matter how well they hid it the majority of the Northern bannermen were ambitiously minded. Fighting and clawing at one another behind the shadow of Winterfell for a way to dominate their neighbors. Lady Shiera had been certain to rid Sansa of her Stark-naivety immediately upon assuming the role of governess. Now the young woman knew fully well that everything came at a price, including the Maderly's hospitality. Waiting inside of the courtyard were the rest of Wendel's family. His brother Wyllis was just as, if not more severely so, fatter. Both of the man's daughters were surprisingly willowy and were easy enough on the eyes. Wynafryd with her long brown braid and cunning eyes, while Wylla embraced the strangest shade of green in her own hair.

A quick glance from Shiera was all it took for Sansa Stark to move into action. Feigning shyness she demurely asked for Wendel to introduce her to his nieces. The beautiful, legitimized, Targaryen bastard wasted no time inserting herself between the easily-beguilable Wyllis and his wife. Doubtlessly trying to extract information from him about the Lyseni party which had beaten their own arrival by a whole day. Batting both pairs of eyelashes at Wendel kept the second-born sod from interfering while the Manderly sisters were easily distracted by the fine-stitching on Sansa's gown. This was how her trips to Torrhen's Square and Widow's Watch had went. Shiera manipulating the true decision makers while Sansa practiced her courtesies on those who attempted to interfere with the Great Bastard's schemes.

"Our Lord father bought the freedom of a Myrish lace maker many years ago," Wylla chimed with an eagerness to impress, "You must show her such work, Lady Sansa. She refuses to teach us anything and claims we are as good at stitching as donkeys!" Smiling at the younger Manderly girl's honest candor Sansa was reminded of Arya. Her heart ached sorely, for her sister had wished to visit White Harbor dearly, but the nature of their visit had not been suitable for children.

"Yes," Wynafryd shot something akin to a reprimanding stare in Wylla's direction, "Kiera is quite outspoken. Though she does contribute her weight in gold to the coffers every year with all that lace." Clearly the sisters were rivals which made perfect sense to Sansa. She and Arya suffered a normal competitiveness, but neither of them were ever expected to inherit Winterfell. These two Manderly girls no doubt envied the freedom and power one another respectively possessed. As they entered into New Castle the conversation took a turn. "Wait until you see them all, Lady Sansa," Wynafryd murmured titterishly, "Those Lysene Lords are quite dishy."

Excitement rising again Sansa folded both hands gracefully in front of her as they swept inside of the Merman's Court. A Great Hall far grander than the one sported by Winterfell. All manner of sea creatures were carved skillfully upon the wooden walls. Sitting at the head of the table was Wyman Manderly. The fattest man she had ever seen which also explained his absence from the reception. Surrounding him, however, were all manner of guests from Lys. All were men, and all were indeed incredibly handsome with Valyrian features. Knowing better than to giggle improperly alongside Wylla, Sansa stood with far more elegance than even Wynafryd displayed. At this point Shiera Seastar swept forwards lissomely to address the kinsmen who had travelled so far to meet her.

"Thank you for welcoming Lady Stark and myself into your splendid home, Lord Manderly," She curtseyed deeper than even Sansa could manage. The cloth-of-silver about her voluptuous body clung tightly at the new movement in a very sensuous manner. As Wendel suffered heart palpitations the Stark girl stepped forth easily to curtsey beside her governess. "I must also thank our Lyseni guests for arriving with such promptness to my request." The handsome gaggle of men all nodded at the pair.

"Before we commence with the feast I have a gift I would like to present you Lady Stark." Sansa was surprised of course that someone was gifting her instead of _the_ Lady Seastar. How could Lord Manderly choose to flatter Ned Stark's daughter over a beauty enigmatically resurrected after a century-long absence? She realized slowly enough, as servants carted out a massive crate, that this display of generosity was only because Shiera had already been given a most precious gift. The woman would soon be conducting plenty of business within White Harbor after all. At the fat Lord's behest the wooden vessel was cracked open to reveal a most glorious sight. "This years' finest imports of fabrics from the Free Cities. Suitable for a Stark of Winterfell, and the daughter of my liege Lord!"

The girl felt somewhat guilty at first for stealing such a fine bounty from the Manderly women. Yet that dissipated away easily enough at the recollection that they had probably been gifted such lovely silks their entire lives. While Sansa's father never forced his children to dress like peasants by any means the coffers of Winterfell were always invested towards survival. These lovely materials would certainly allow her to begin crafting a recognizable style such as the one Shiera maintained. One which warranted the attentions of suitors from all over Westeros, and even Essos. This thought prompted her to remember the important Lyseni men who were all watching carefully, and her impeccable courtesies. "Lord Manderly. Your limitless kindness has impressed upon myself the accuracy in my Lord father's claims that House Manderly is amongst our most loyal vassals. So long as it is within my power I shall attempt to prove how greatly House Stark appreciates the Mermen of White Harbor."

He raised his cup of wine high in the air at that, "To the Starks do my kith and kin owe everything." All around the hall both the Manderly nobles and guards released a synchronised cry of affirmation. Sansa already recognized that she would have to repay the man in her own way, in a way which revealed the Stark's recognition of their staunchest supporter. Glancing to the left she noted how Shiera's chin was twisted upwards with a slightly haughty air. Indicating that she approved of her pupil's handling of the Manderlys.

From beside Lord Manderly stood one of the Lyseni visitors, who had all remained silent during the raucous toast. "My compatriots and I," His voice was gorgeous, like flowing liquid which trickled pleasantly down Sansa's spine, "Have also brought gifts. Some to symbolize the new partnership between Lys and the Starks, as well as a few for the beautiful Lady Stark." His gaze danced quickly upon Shiera before lingering for a moment on Sansa. She worried momentarily over the improperness of such a long glance, but in a moment of weakness allowed herself to examine his features. Midnight-black hair, which was remarkably wavy for being cut so short, drew his vibrantly coloured, lilac eyes into a position of easy visibility. Servants of similar colouring to the Lyseni men perched above entered the hall soon after.

Sansa felt her heart beating heavily in response to the strange man's foreign countenance. Attempting to retain some semblance of dignity she swept backwards to watch the procession alongside the Manderly girls. Several cases of red and white wine, lovely tapestries, fine dirks which Wendel peered at covetously, more fabrics, spices, and many other luxuries were carted forth. Lord Manderly seemed highly displeased at having been upstaged by his guests in wooing the Starks.

At the very end of this procession came a beautiful Lysene woman. Her Valyrian looks were no match for Shiera's, yet she was still quite the jawdropper. On either side of this beauty stood two final servants who both held identical trunks. "We gift Lady Sansa the finest scents from our greatest perfumers," One of the trunks was opened to reveal many ornate bottles. The other cracked open giving a glimpse of a large, golden necklace set with large stones that flickered many colours. "A necklace set with the largest opals from our newest mining venture," His alluring voice continued, "And one of the loveliest courtesans to serve as her handmaiden."

Sansa knew what to say if a Queen sneezed, or how to act if a Lord Paramount tripped. Though her impressive knowledge of customs were incapable of yielding a suitable thing to say to this, clearly, wealthy Lyseni man. He doubtlessly wanted _something_ from her with such extravagant gifts. "The Lady Stark will find much use from such beauteous gifts," Lady Seastar saved her charge from having to stutter out a proper response, "Though the North is pleased enough at the opportunity to build relations with Lys." He responded in kind while those eyes continued to stare into Sansa's blue eyes. She made a mental note to discuss the peculiar development with Shiera later prior to being shuffled into a seat of honor.

The piles of priceless gifts left in the middle of the hall as though to taunt her with the questions which surrounded them.

OOOO

"You did well yesterday, dear San," Shiera complimented her when Andarra, the Lyseni handmaiden, finally left to fetch a basin of water. They sat on Sansa's bed staring at the mound of presents sitting against the wall. Lord Manderly had given them a large set of chambers to share on Shiera's polite insistence. She was quite appreciative of it too as the the thought of being completely alone with a Lyeni courtesan was unnerving. "Drazenko Rogare took an obvious liking to you, unexpected yet certainly not unwelcome." As Lady Seastar spoke her elegant fingers worked to curl Sansa's auburn locks with a device from Lys. Both Shiera and Andarra insisted that the foreign style had been popular in the Free City for centuries.

"Why did he take such an interest in me?" The Stark girl asked, "I thought that he would try to win _your_ favour with gifts. Given that he is here to negotiate a business relationship with you." Her quavering foot betrayed the nervousness which Shiera advised her to hide only a year earlier.

"You forget that many are already aware of my reputation. They simply need to read a book of history to know that gifts did my other suitors no favours. Only foolish women are tricked by such displays, and I am certainly no foolish woman." Shiera whirled the metal device tightly about another lock of red. "You, however, are as of yet unproven. Already growing into the loveliest of _many_ Tullys I have encountered. Closely related to Lord Paramounts of three Westerosi kingdoms, one of whom is Hand to Robert Baratheon. My protegee in the finer arts of plotting and ambitions." The auburn curls were allowed to fall upon Sansa's shoulders as her governess stood to finish dressing herself. "Drazenko Rogare is hardly the first, or last, suitor you have caught the eye of. But he is certainly the most powerful you have encountered so far. Merely remember that in this dance of passions you are the one with all of the knives."

She wheeled the girl over to the corner where her prized mirror leant against a dusty vanity. It was a lovely object recovered from the cache which had been discovered in the Crypts of Winterfell. Sansa found it very easy to understand why her tutor went to such pains to bring it everywhere she travelled. Her mind was wrenched away from the mirror itself only a split-second later, and instead towards the face looking back. Loose curls of a brilliant auburn fell across both shoulders, catching the light like peet in a flame. "I have decided that it is time to test what you have truly learned, Sansa," Shiera announced suddenly, spritzing some of the Lyseni perfume into her new curls. "We shall see how you fare against Wyman Manderly, and those Lyseni suitors."

Andara returned only a few moments later bringing an abrupt halt to their whisperings. Not much later did Sansa find herself entering Lord Manderly's extravagant solar with her governess leading the way. The Maester, a Lannister, was only too happy to assist with pulling her respective seat out. Though he clearly loathed to do the same for Shiera whom many southerners viewed as a threat to the Realm's peace. Not much could be done with Jon Arryn staunchly supporting the Stark's efficient economic advisor, so no matter how reluctant he pretended gallantry all the same. "Before we begin, Lord Manderly," The silver-gold haired beauty addressed the Lord sitting across from them, "I must deliver a proclamation that Lord Stark has recently enacted."

"He wishes for a rotation of Northern soldiers to be rotated monthly as supplemental forces to the wall?" Lord-Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse read aloud with an incredulous tone.

"Lord Stark feels that this will not only provide sufficient training to the Northmen, but that we might be also able to implement plans that can revitalize the Wall." Her explanation gave away more than he needed to know while highlighting the seriousness of the matter. Firm and punctual. "You will send one-thousand Manderly men to the Wall this month alongside the Glovers, Tallharts, and Flints. Then other Houses shall temporarily fill in, until another contingent is to assume the mantle." The Lord of White Harbor could not have disobeyed such an order even if he wished to.

With the decree signed, Shiera moved on to her own personal plan. "I have been working with other Lords to improve upon the Northern network of transportation. Both of goods and leisurely travel." At the crook of her finger the Lannister Maester spread a map she had brought across Wyman Manderly's desk. Sansa did not recall her instructor disclosing this particular ambition which prompted her to peek forth interestedly. Crisscrossing the mammoth landmass her Stark ancestors had conquered were lines drawn with various colours of ink. "I have done what I can, my Lord. The lumberers and sawmills have vastly improved their efficiency since I took charge. Food production has also rapidly yielded greater stores than in recent memory. Only so much can be done to maximize utilization of our land when we are so disconnected."

"What you are proposing is impossible," The Maester scoffed at the Great Bastard, "No Lord, not even one so great as Lord Wyman, can build such a network of roads. It would surely bankrupt the No-."

"I _assure_ you I am capable of simple arithmetics, Maester Theomore," Shiera Seastar's voice was frostier than Winterfell on a sunless day. "So is Lord Stark, or this proposal might never have reached Lord Manderly's eyes." Dismissively she turned her full attention back to the man who actually mattered. "The red indicates the roads I wish for you to contribute to the overall network."

"Why would I ever wish to build a road from here to Flint's Finger?" He asked shrewdly, "What could I have to gain from such a weighty investment, my Lady?"

"A considerable tax deduction will be offered by Lord Stark as incentivization. But there is also the matter of untapped trade," Those mismatched eyes, green and blue, sparkled with a ferociously bold look Sansa greatly admired. Her companion was undeniably passionate when it came to developing cunning initiatives, yet she enjoyed selling them even more so. "I have traversed every bog of the Neck, as well as every inch of Flint's Finger. Peet, bogland fish, exotic pelts and skins, and even bog iron! Imagine the sheer boom of trade that could occur if we managed to unite that jumble of land to White Harbor?"

Sansa knew it would mean disagreeing with her governess, yet she did not care. Only a fool would allow another fool to make an error, and Shiera would appreciate the chance to defend herself. "My father has always told us the importance of Moat Cailin. If a road were constructed would it not undercut the strategic advantage of the Neck in defending our homeland?"

Lord Manderly looked highly impressed as did Maester Theomore. Lady Seastar merely grinned at her pupil's capacity to think critically. "Right you are, Lady Sansa. That is why I have already gained Lord Reed's agreement to this plan. With his support the Crannogmen will man the new roads. Much of the pathway built in the heart of the Neck will be constructed primarily by Lord Manderly's neighbors. They alone will be in charge of escorting merchants and other travellers through Moat Cailin to Flint's Finger." She stood, planting both hands firmly against the table, "The economic growth will make up for the tax deductions by a tenfold. All I require is your support, Lord Manderly."

Sansa knew then that Shiera had already won. The second they stepped into White Harbor Lord Manderly had doubtlessly anticipated a proposal such as this one. "You had my support at the mention of tax deductions, my Lady," He chucked suddenly, eyes gleaming greedily. Head shaking the man stared at the rest of the map, at all of the roads which would lead to White Harbor. For the first time in history it seemed that Bear Island would be effortlessly able to trade their wares in his city.

"I also have a proposition for you, Lord Manderly," Sansa articulated politely, "As I grow older I find myself in greater need of a court. Your daughter Wylla was simply so delightful yesterday that I wished to extend an invitation for her to return with us to Winterfell. As my very first Lady-in-Waiting." Needless to say he pounced with immense appreciation on the opportunity to set his daughter upon Robb Stark.

Not much later Shiera left with two proclamations, and Sansa with the admiration of her father's most powerful liege, as well as the first vestiges of a court.

OOOO

Given that Lord Manderly was far too large to be moved anywhere with the slightest bit of ease, the Lyseni Nobles were hosted in a large set of chambers which overlooked the Shivering Sea instead of the solar. With Andara serving as a cupbearer, Sansa and Shiera were free to patiently await House Stark's new business partners. Of course, Sansa still had yet to determine the full impact such a relationship might have upon the North. She knew that the matter of loans from the formerly influential Rogare Bank would be a big topic of discussion. Shiera's lofty plans required funding from somewhere after all. A bigger question which required inspection remained unspoken though. The Rogares could have dispatched any old banker to negotiate interest rates, but instead they sent their heir. As the handsome men entered the room she supposed her questions would be answered with a dose of patience in exchange.

"Lady Seastar," Drazenko Rogare smiled charmingly at them, "Lady Stark." Unsurprisingly the brunt of his Valyrian handsomeness was directed her way prompting Shiera's advice to swiftly reenter Sansa's mind. Their far closer proximity allowed her to examine him much more closely. Despite being only being five or six years older than her at most the Rogare heir seemed well on par with Shiera. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and appeared quite powerful. Sansa could only imagine how easy of a prey she might prove for a man of such clearly high caliber and political mindedness. His three companions were no less impressive, though none caught her attention in quite the same manner.

"Master Drazenko," Shiera nodded at him, gesturing politely for Andarra to fill each cup with wine, "We have much to discuss it appears." Her mismatched gaze flickered to the other Lyseni men. "I must admit that I was quite surprised to hear you had three Magisters in your company. A pleasant surprise of course, yet surprising all the same."

"The Court of Lys had several matters which needed to be settled with you. A lowly banker is hardly fit to divulge such sensitive matters though." He smiled with what could only be called sheepishness as the Magisters took control of the conversation. Drazenko Rogare seemed only too happy for the distraction as it allowed him to glance in her direction all the more openly. No longer one to easily blush like a naive maiden for handsome knights, Sansa ignored his advances as though they were nonexistent. This proved rather easy to accomplish, however, for the conversation around her was quite fascinating.

"There is little doubt as to who you are, Lady Seastar. Eddard Stark has provided the entire world with enough evidence over the last two years of that. No matter how strange the circumstances, there is no way to dismiss your claims." The oldest and most stately of the Magisters spoke resolutely. "Unfortunately that brings a matter Lys once believed resolved back into question. Your mother's family is completely gone, and your own _substantial_ former holdings in the city have been requisitioned by the court." He nodded, but without any ounce of regret in his features for that bit of unwelcome information. "Upon a lengthy debate in the Temple of Trade it was determined that your estate will be returned in hopes of beginning a prosperous relationship with the North."

At that declaration a second Lyseni Magister pushed a large pile of parchments over to Lady Shiera. "You are due to be restored a fleet of trading galleys, what heirlooms were not sold, all former properties in Lys and the Disputed Lands, the ancestral Lordship of House Tirhenys, what little was left in the coffers of that esteemed House, and partial compensation for the liquidation of shareholdings." Sansa was immensely surprised to say the least. She had known that her tutor was once a diplomat to Lys, yet never would have considered she was the last of a noble, Valyrian line. Determined to pry later, she listened batedly for the woman's response.

Lady Seastar did not speak at first. Instead she shuffled quickly through the papers with a furrowed brow. "I will also be given a seat in the Magister's Court for the duration of my life, and that of my heir's as well." This demand was met with an incredulous protestation from all but Drazenko Rogare. A hand was held firmly aloft in the air before them. "You know full well what has been left out of these documents. Only a guaranteed seat on the Council for two generations could make up for the loss of something so precious." Her lips were stretched tightly in a displeased manner. Those eyes burned with a venomous fury Sansa had never seen before. Not even when Shiera had caught Theon Greyjoy rifling through her undergarments had she looked so angry.

"You will have it," The older Magister sneered reluctantly, "I shall see that you are guaranteed two generations in the Temple of Trade."

"Excellent," Shiera smiled with false sweetness, "Now feel free to leave Master Rogare and myself to discuss our business, my fellow Magisters. I will be sure to meet with you all again when I arrive to finalize these terms in Lys." With the signing of a hastily revised document the trio was sent out of the room. Leaving Sansa alone with two, almost unearthly attractive, Valyrians.

"It is a pleasure to know that you will be rejoining Lysene society, Lady Seastar," Drazenko Rogare grinned in a way which made Sansa's heart stop. "I fear many of my compatriots have rather lost their touch when it comes to negotiating."

"Have no fear, Master Rogare," Shiera Seastar nodded at him in a self-assured way, "I shall teach them the ways of old. One-by-one." What followed was a ruthless hammering of details as the two negotiated entire contracts from blank sheets of parchment. Sansa put her impeccable handwriting to the test as she carefully copied the terms being bandied about. They first started by discussing the business of appropriate interest rates for the North's first loan in many decades. When the banking heir reminded Shiera that the North lacked any proper credit history she smugly reminded him of the fact that the Starks never ran deficits. Eventually their dance of words ended with a massive loan being issued to Winterfell in promise of a moderate interest rate. No doubt the largest transaction the Rogare Bank had secured in a very long time.

Sansa wondered what Shiera planned to do with that sum of gold. She longed to know precisely what plans the woman had stirring secretly inside of her lovely head. Thankfully it seemed that some of them would be revealed to herself and Drazenko Rogare in that sitting. The promissory note was replaced with another blank parchment intended to serve as a trade agreement. "I would like for your bank to provide any human resources it can spare in exchange for a temporary percentage of whatever is produced from the North's intermediate goods. Glassblowers, shipwrights, weavers, craftsmen, and more."

He stared at the platinum-haired Targaryen thoughtfully. "I want that percentage to remain in effect for two decades. I also want for the North to build the Rogare Bank a fleet of ships which can rival the Iron Bank's at a greatly discounted price." His fingers drummed momentarily against the tabletop, "Lady Stark shall also work with myself to forge business connections between the Rogare Bank and her relatives in Riverrun and the Eyrie."

Shiera paused for a moment after her pupil was directly dragged into the course of negotiations. She was waiting, Sansa realized abruptly, for her to address the Rogare heir. Back straightening further even though her spine was already ramrod straight the girl forced herself to make House Stark proud. To shove any timidity aside and prove herself worthy of breathing the same air as such clever, ambitious people. "Such business connections are worth far more than you have offered to Winterfell," She was certain to use a matter-of-fact tone rather than a snide one. "We both know that such influence would give the Rogare's enough trajectory to rival the Iron Bank once again." Tully-blue peered endlessly into brilliant lilac.

"I can offer your Tully and Arryn relatives an opportunity to grow just as prosperous as House Stark shall from our newly forged relationship. Unless you do not share the same sort of ambitions as Lady Seastar does?" He was trying to provoke her into acting foolish, but the wolf's blood was not strong enough in Sansa Stark for such a reaction. That handsome face was riveting to look upon during the heated exchange of terms, the maiden realized embarrassedly. Her heart was coursing eagerly with a rush of excited blood.

"I will keep my own ambitions close to my chest. Much like you yourself do Master Drazenko," She did not smile at her effective barb. The battle was not won yet. "Let us imagine that I would ever prove willing to host a meeting at Riverrun between my Lord grandfather, uncle the Hand, and yourself. Even if that introductory meeting were to hypothetically prove less than a success it would still be worthy of several alterations to this trade agreement. For instance, you would receive only a _slight_ discount on that fleet you so greatly desire. Furthermore, instead of a percentage of our generated revenue for two decades it would round closer to five years." Her red curls shifted as she leant forwards slightly. "If I were to succeed in forging a relationship between the Rogare Bank and my relatives it would be further reduced to two years. Nothing more and nothing less."

"Do those terms sound agreeable to you, Master Rogare? Or would you rather remain beneath the shadow of Bravos?" Shiera asked when he simply observed Sansa speculatively for a silent while.

"If the Lady Stark agrees to accompany me on my tour of White Harbor this afternoon I will be more than happy to agree to her terms." He was bold, so daringly forthcoming that a heavy blush spread across the lovely Stark's pale cheeks. Despite her best attempts at feigning ignorance to his advances it seemed that Drazenko Rogare had indeed won.

"I am amenable to such a proposition, so long as Andarra chaperones us, Master Drazenko," She responded before Shiera could. Sealing the North's prosperous future, and hoping desperately that her forefathers were all smiling proudly from their tombs in the Crypts of Winterfell.

OOOO

Starks always kept their promises, at least Sansa's father had always abided by that code. Despite finding herself nervous of Drazenko Rogare's forward advances she found herself waiting for him in the courtyard anyways. "Lady Stark," He greeted her with a heartstopping kiss planted against her wrist, "I must admit that between the beauty of the Shivering Sea, and your own, I may very well suffer a stroke." That accent caused shivers to roll across her spine, again, as a pleased look filtered into the Rogare heir's lilac eyes. Behind them Andarra gave no indication that she was left uncomfortable by the man's obvious display of flirting.

"Certainly I am no easier to look upon than the beauties of Lys, Master Rogare," Her tone was firm, refusing to betray any emotions he might play to his advantage. Behind them Andarra drew many gazes for her exotic attractiveness. Above their heads as well Shiera no doubt faced similar attentions from male observers.

"The women of Lys are undeniably beautiful, Lady Stark," They walked as she reluctantly allowed him to place her dainty hand around his elbow and muscular bicep. "Though the Valyrian features lose their charm easily enough. Much of that allure is only totally effective on outsiders. Accordingly, it requires a special kind of Lyseni maiden to hold my gaze." Those lovely eyes peered firmly into Sansa's as they were escorted by guards into the White Harbor. "I have always found the descendants of the First Men and Andals to be much more… Memorable."

The girl was already growing tired of their verbal sparring match. "Certainly my societal status has much to do with your opinion as well, Master Rogare?" She dismissed his inappropriate speech with an honest tone. "Many men would surely not blink twice in my direction if I were a mere peasant girl."

His rude scoff left her reeling surprisedly. "I will give you a fair enough warning Lady Stark," He smiled almost tauntingly, "Do not underestimate the effect of your countenance, or wits. The last time a Stark maiden made such a reprehensible mistake, if I am not mistaken, a millenia old dynasty collapsed." A speculative gleam crossed his face as they paused in one of the markets to look out at the Shivering Sea. The guard spread out a slight bit farther to give them privacy while Andarra all too easily followed suit. "In Lys we worship many of the Valyrian Gods. I favour Meraxes, the epitome of war, as well as his lover, Syrax. She reminds us in the old texts to latch onto the gifts she sends our way."

Drazenko Rogare carefully pulled something from his wrist in that moment. "Lust is for simple men, no true followers of Syrax's words. Radiance is a gift given to those that hold true to her enlightenment. Living every day as though it might be their last." At this he gripped Sansa's wrist gently in his masculine hands. Soon enough the almost obscene bracelet was clasped tightly in place. "Meraxes," He whispered in her ear, pointing to the muscular, partially nude form of a warrior, "Will protect you ferociously until we next meet." Her the man trailed his finger to the other metallic figure, supple and lithe, "Syrax will bless you equally as fervently. Like she would any of her gifts to mankind."

"I follow the Old Gods of my forefathers, and the Seven of my mother before me," Sansa could not will herself to move away. Bound firmly in place by something that was beyond her comprehension. She hoped that Andarra or one of the guards would pull them apart, yet they all belonged to him. No help would come to save Sansa from the jaws of her most ardent suitor.

"As any devoted daughter should," Those gorgeous eyes swirled with passion, "Though it does not stop the Valyrian deities from recognizing what captivation they have trapped in the human form." So close they stood next to one another, so incredibly close that he almost could have-. With that he stepped back to a courteous distance. Supple, red lips curving mischievously as though he knew exactly what she had been thinking. "When we next meet, Sansa Stark," Drazenko Rogare bowed to her, "I wish to hear your plans for the Vale and Riverlands. I am certain that there are many of them hiding within that intelligent head." He left her leaning against the rail with a clearly amused Andarra and half of the remaining guard.

Gasping for breath while the two Valyrian Gods made passionate love upon her willowy wrist.

OOOO

Shiera entered the chamber with a loud sigh, yet very accomplished at that. The funding had been secured for her many plans, and letters of invitation were sailing closer to Skagos with each breath she took. Mismatched eyes fell upon her ornate mirror with a look that practically dripped venom. "Guese haogan lineye rougal," She hissed in Valyrian, the typically flowery language sounding like knives on her bitter lips. The darkening sky outside only enhanced the unnatural vision which appeared within that reflective surface. A disgusting, half-decomposed skeleton glared upwards with one crimson eye. "Eht skratS era enim. Ym ygidorp sworg regnorts sa I ecnalg nopu rouy ecnanguper." Clawed hands whipped the brief image away before any retaliatory consequences could be inflicted. Now with a genuinely compassionate smile she turned to greet her returning pupil.

Blood pumping thickly with the sweetest hints of vengeance.

OOOO

Whatevs, I guess I will just post this one too. A bit more wish fulfillment before final exams. Sigh.

Next Chapter: The Stoneborn.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: The Game is Built Upon Desire.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

 **Four Months Later**

"Lord Stark," Shiera Seastar smiled at his father, "There are several matters which require your attention." Sashaying forth she seemed entirely oblivious to Robb's momentarily lustful gaze. The three of them, not including Maester Luwin, were in the Lord's solar. For what seemed the thousandth time he had visited to beg his father for a real sword, but to little avail. Accordingly, the woman's arrival spared him the humiliation of a severe tongue-lashing. She set a large pile of papers before him, though the Lord of Winterfell was too firm in his duties to ever blanche at such a sight. Robb recognized that this was his time to escape.

"Stay, Robb," Eddard Stark nodded sternly at his son, "Lady Seastar and I have much to discuss regarding our shared plans for the North. As my heir it is important that you be well-versed in them." He was not terribly surprised, as he sat back down with a weary glance at the pile of documents. Sansa had been proving herself to be heavily instrumental in Lady Shiera's plot for Northern development. The future Lord Paramount of the North couldn't have expected any less involvement than his eldest sister. A book of ledgers was removed from underneath the Great Bastard's arm prior to being handed gently to Maester Luwin. "Please, take a seat, Shiera," Ned Stark's weathered face twisted with a knowing smile. This would be a long meeting, like always.

Always out to impress the most unattainable beauty in Westeros, Robb stood swiftly to pull the chair back. A beautiful smile crossed her face when she thanked him. So blinding that his heart almost stopped. "The Rogares have followed through with their part of the contract. Our loan has arrived under heavy guard at White Harbor along with, what I hear, is a great host of artisans." She hardly even blinked at this stream of facts, "However, the Stoneborn have finally been convinced by myself to journey to winterfell. All three of the Skaggosson Houses are willing to negotiate with Winterfell."

"A feast will need to be prepared. With so many guests visiting," He sighed, "I should war-."

"I have already taken the liberty of informing Lady Stark. Sansa and her court are busy assisting your Lady wife with the preparations as we speak." She assuaged all of his concerns with abrupt immediacy. Many wondered why Robb's father had done something so foolish as keeping a 'sorcerous, Targaryen Princess' around. Yet if they could have witnessed that moment they would have realized easily enough. She was beyond efficient with her incredible knack for economics, and Robb could tell that his father also thought of her as some sort of surrogate daughter. Shiera Seastar was well on her way in proving worth the ire of Robert Baratheon. "I must also tell you that I have taken the initiative to invite the Lord Commander. Given that so many guests are arriving already it would be smartest to get our discussions out of the way."

Such presumptuousness would have been the downfall of any other advisor though Robb knew his father never disapproved of the woman's clever plots. "Well enough, I suppose," Ned Stark nodded at her, "There is much that you and I must discuss with Jeor Mormont."

"Lord Manderly has made steady progress in the construction of his roads. The Reeds are assisting him to the west, while he has taken initiative to build a road to Ramsgate," She paused to let him glance over the letters. "Lady Mormont has also been building to the best of her ability, but Bear Island will doubtlessly require financial assistance. The Dustins and Ryswells, however, have unfortunately proven more difficult to convince." That was quite unsettling for Robb to hear. He wondered just how much those two, admittedly powerful, Houses must have hated House Starks to pass up such an opportunity. The Dustins were fools to ignore a chance to disperse their sizable agricultural industry through Westeros, and the Ryswells idiots to not trade their horses in bulk at White Harbor.

"We need their participation if we are to ever dream of paying back this loan to the Rogares," Maester Luwin cautioned them all while continuing to peruse the ledger.

"Aye," His father nodded with a faint glimmer of displeasure in those grey eyes, "The Ryswells and Dustins know that as well. They will ask for all the timber in the Wolfswood before giving us anything we need." They all sat in silence for a moment until the Lord of House Stark spoke again. "After we have dealt with our approaching guests, you will travel south to the Rills before going to Barrowton, Lady Shiera. Robb shall accompany you on this journey." He already felt himself blanche at the notion of being trapped alone with the Great Bastard. Even in that particular moment Robb could hardly hide the dull throbbing of his cock.

"Of course, it is important for Lord Robb to witness the handling of those particular Lords," She nodded her affirmation. Here a tentative look crossed her lovely face. "As you should be able to see, from that letter there, Drazenko Rogare expects Lady Sansa to greet him in the south." A stony silence greeted her attempts to bring up this course of discussion. Robb's father still refused to acknowledge that Sansa was becoming a masterful politician. She had begun to change practically overnight from an idealistic child to a young woman. That sort of change was hard for a father to accept. "It would be best to bring both Arya and Sansa along with Robb and I southwest. Then we could meet with their grandfather, Hand uncle, and the Rogares at Riverrun."

"Arya will be staying here," He corrected firmly, "I have already discussed this same matter with Lady Stark. She is too young, and still much too free-spirited for such a matter."

"Father," Robb surprised himself by speaking out, "Arya at least deserves to meet her grandfather and uncle. She has made such massive progress in her courtesy. All she does anymore is practice her dancing, and stitching." He liked to think he interfered due to a familial loyalty to Arya, yet Robb knew that it was a hardly acknowledged yearning to impress Lady Seastar.

"He is correct, Lord Stark," The Targaryen bastard interjected rapidly. It was now safe for her to argue against the Lord of Winterfell with his own heir firmly on her side. "Arya will be a capable young Lady very soon enough. I have even begun to consider having her begin to organize a court of her own. Many Nobles in the Riverlands would prove quite willing to participate, given her Tully blood, and such companions would only reinforce my teachings."

They were firmly scrutinized for a brief moment. "Do you swear, Robb," He glanced piercingly upon his son, "That if I agree to this you will keep Arya safe. Bearing in mind just how willful that girl can be."

"I do father," He nodded at him from across the desk, "I swear it on my honor as a Stark."

A reluctant nod followed as Ned regarded his economic advisor once more. "Hopefully you take care for your own safety as well, Lady Seastar. Any journey you make out of the North will be a widely acknowledged one. Even Jon Arryn might not be able to protect you from the King's wrath so far south of the Neck."

Neither of them knew that Lady Shiera did not fear Robert Baratheon though. No, she feared those puppet masters who controlled him.

OOOO

"-never fails to impress me, Lady Cerwyn," Theon Greyjoy flirted unashamedly. Alongside him Jonelle Cerwyn giggled loudly at his inappropriate advances. From beside Sansa, Arya rolled her grey eyes at the repugnant display. Since the eldest Stark daughter returned with a court consisting of Wylla Manderly and Andarra, her father's ward had tried his worst to besmirch them. Now apart from Jeyne Poole he scandalously eyed Lady Wylla and, the more recently included, Jonelle Cerwyn. The homely, older Noblewoman could hardly have been blamed for being so receptive to such advances however. Sansa suspected the thirty year old woman was terrified of dying a virgin let alone dying unwed.

"Theon," Sansa snapped with a slight hint of impatience, "Lady Jonelle is meant to be overseeing the cleaning of the silver. Your antics better suit Winter Town than distracting us." Lady Cerwyn startled at having been caught flirting with her younger suitor prior to watching the servants more closely. With a sullen glare the Ironborn man marched away from them all.

"Good luck marrying that one off if Theon diddles with her," Arya whispered with no small amount of vulgarity. Sansa wished to scold her sister for speaking in such a crude way, but it was certainly the truth. The auburn-haired beauty had decided to win much favour from Lord Cerwyn by being the one to finally marry off his plump daughter. Unfortunately, it seemed she bit off more than could be chewed. If Lady Jonelle were to lose her maidenhead improperly she would be absolutely undesirable to any suitors. Sighing at the stress caused by her Ladies-in-Waiting, Sansa looked back down at the ledgers she had been furiously reviewing prior to Theon's dramatics.

Arya simply continued to lead her own squadron of servants in arranging centerpieces as though nothing had happened. "You have seemed out of sorts ever since you got back from White Harbor," Her younger sister remarked boldly.

"It is just the stress of everything here," Sansa lied easily, "I have a court to look after now. Shiera has been relying on my help more than eve-." With a sudden smack Arya stunned her sister into silence by grabbing her wrist, so swiftly that the Lysene bracelet was jerked into sight.

Two impenetrably gray eyes glared upwards at her as though demanding to be told the truth. "More gifts from the Manderlys? Or could it be from that handsome Rogare you mumble about in your sleep?" That caused the eldest daughter of House Stark to blush quite ferociously. More often than not she would stay up late with Arya to help her improve what had previously been abysmal needlework. Sometimes they even ended up asleep next to one another, as close as two sisters could possibly be. "'Drazenko'," Arya went on to mimic her in an overly saccharine, whiny tone, "'I think I might be in love with you'. Blegh."

"One day you will fancy a gallant knight, or dashing Lord. Much to the surprise of all of Winterfell," Sansa sniped back easily, "And in that instance I will not hold back any snide taunting. Think carefully little sister."

"I don't want that sort of thing," Arya finally responded, knuckles growing painfully white as she sorted flower petals.

Sansa reached out to touch her sister this time, squeezing reassuringly on the girl's shoulder. "You will find a man who respects you, sister. Who cares not for your…" Those blue eyes glanced nervously about before she whispered, " _Lessons_." Subconsciously disapproving, despite trying her best to understand it, the auburn-haired Lady recalled her little sister's secret sword fighting lessons. That had been the only way Shiera managed to pierce Arya's deeply held aversion to doing anything Ladylike. "It might not seem as such now," Sansa smiled confidently, "But everyone says how much you are like Aunt Lyanna. Men will throw themselves at your feet one day."

"That they will," Shiera Seastar cut across their quiet conversation without preemptively announcing her arrival, "But not if you two gain a reputation for idle chatter." The pair turned to eagerly ask how the woman's conversations had gone with the Lord of Winterfell. She held a patient hand aloft, "Your Lord father gave his consent for Arya to travel with us to Riverrun." Any excitement from that announcement did not last long. "This will be all business, however," Shiera warned them sternly, "You two are going to forge connections. Any word you speak, or action taken shall reflect not only upon House Stark, but the Tullys and Arryns as well."

"I don't want to represent my family. I thought that was Sansa's jo-." Arya was cut off soundly by their governess.

"Do not, Arya, not 'don't,'" Shiera corrected firmly without any snideness. "You and your sister are two of the most powerful women in Westeros. In fact, after the two of you have married you _will_ be the most powerful women in Westeros. It is not just Sansa's responsibility to delegate our southern affairs." Those mismatched eyes practically peered into Arya's soul, "Nonetheless, I am certain you will have more fun playing the game than you are anticipating."

What followed was a swift dismissal of the girls from assisting their Lady mother with preparations. "You two must go and finish turning those silks from the Manderlys into your southern wardrobes. I cannot have my charges marching about the Riverlands wearing bundles of woolen fabric."

OOOO

 **One Week Later**

Robb had never seen Winterfell so full in his entire life. The Stark heir could remember harvest feasts, and having all the Northern Lords visit to renew their oaths of fealty. Yet this was unprecedented for a child of summer. First had come the contingent of artisans from all across Lyseni assets in Essos. The majority were former slaves, the minority had been indebted to the Rogare Bank. All of them had scurried to the North after having been firmly reminded that slavery was outlawed in Westeros. Alongside these many immigrants were the Manderly forces used to transport the loan which filled three armoured carts with gold. Wylis Manderly had arrived unannounced with this entourage so that he could visit with his daughter Wylla.

Shortly after the southern visitors was Lord Commander Jeor Mormont with his small guard of sworn brothers from the north. Accompanying them had been a group of 'diggers' who were residents of Mole's Town, or the furthest settlement in the North. Robb still did not know quite why Shiera had requested their presence. What he could recognize was that his mother never would have been able to prepare a proper feast. Alongside the Night's Watch contingent, the Umbers had decided to march south as well which prompted the more competitive Mountain Clans to send delegates in response. "Holy shit," Theon muttered prompting Robb to elbow him in the ribs. They both were standing on a balcony in Winterfell with Sansa's handmaidens. Each of the girl's had taken a liking to following him and Theon around. Flirting profusely the whole while.

"Now I know why Lady Seastar spruced Winterfell up so much," Ned Stark's heir acknowledged tiredly. In the prior year the Great Bastard had pressured his parents to order all manner of renovations. The revolting First Keep was deratted and thoroughly cleaned by many reluctant serving maids. What had once been the Broken Tower was, again, the largest watchtower in Winterfell. Even Winterfell itself seemed to be sparkling with renewed vigor. Fortunately all of that hard work would repay them tenfold in yielding several places where the uninvited guests could rest. At that he stared over their last guest's large presence beyond Winterfell's walls.

The Skaggosoons, or Stoneborn as they called themselves, had brought a company of five-hundred men with them. "Why would they presume to bring such a large force of men along? That hardly signifies noble intentions," Lady Jonelle sniffed righteously. Though she annoyed him immensely Robb was inclined to agree with the woman. Of course, he could recognize what the three, fearsome Lords from Skagos were trying to do. They anticipated that despite everything Shiera promised them a new rebellion would break out. This contingent of savage-looking soldiers would no doubt be set against Winterfell's walls if negotiations went afoul.

"We can only hope we do not find out," Robb nodded to Theon, "Though I wonder how an Ironborn would fare against the Stoneborn?" Any smart response coming from Theon's mouth was interrupted as the Ladies in their presence were summoned away. They both turned to look out beyond the battlements before another arrival interrupted their conversation once more.

"Lord Stark," His sister's Lyseni handmaiden entered, "Lady Seastar has asked that you meet her in front of her chambers. She says you are to be her escort." Envy flashed plainly across Theon's face at that. Both of the young men were bitter rivals for Shiera Seastar's sparing attentions. "There is also a… Private matter her ladyship asked me to discuss with Lord Greyjoy," Anadarra spoke with the soft hesitance of a skilled courtesan. While neither of the heirs were experienced enough to recognize her ploy, only one fell for it. Theon's naturally lecherous expression widened in the Valyrian-featured woman's direction. Robb, however, fled the chambers to search out his father's economic advisor.

Robb allowed himself for a foolish moment to relish the many unlikely dreams that haunted him every night. Not just being pulled into Shiera's chambers for the most carnal of acts he could only imagine, but standing with her beneath a weirwood. The snow falling, those mismatched eyes accentuated by a necklace of emeralds and sapphires, all of the Northern Lords peering enviously at Robb's Targaryen Princess. Those dreams were so unexplainably vivid that he often wondered in the mornings if they were not, in fact, visions. Inevitably he would crush his own hopes by remembering Old Nan's nonsense stories of greendreams. Feet coming to a stop he knocked with a curious expression upon the half-open door of Shiera Seastar's chambers.

"Come in, Lord Stark," Her melodic voice drifted in a magical way from the confines of her chamber. Gulping violently at the inappropriateness of this encounter he glanced around prior to slipping inside. Only a few candles lit the mostly dark chambers, and Shiera Seastar was all the lovelier for it. She stood with elegantly folded arms before her grand window which displayed each of Winterfell's many guests. "The Stoneborn are prideful. Jeor Mormont is a greedy fool who is impervious to the notion of compromise. House Umber has travelled south from Last Hearth to protest our sudden interests in Skagos." Here, the beauty turned to face him fully, "My question is simple, Robb Stark. How would you handle them all? Must I be your nursemaid at the Rills and Barrowton, or do you yet have hind legs of your own to stand upon?"

He could not look away from her beauty while his mind roiled fearsomely in the presence of her intelligence. "I-," Robb stumbled nervously, "I would offer each of them something they want?"

"I wanted an answer, Lord Stark," Shiera began to step in a calculated manner towards him, "But you gave me a question instead. Tell me what our guests want." She was stunning in that gown of white-lace, with her simple bracelets of ivory. He wanted nothing more than to undress the voluptuous beauty.

"The Umbers greatly dislike the wildlings," The heir of Winterfell supplied nervously, "They most likely wish for us to halt our deals with the Skagossons."

She at least waited until he had answered to correct him. Stepping even closer, "Wrong. Your father's Northernmost vassals desire an opportunity to dominate the wool market in the North. They will be offered all of our Lyseni fabric masters, as well as several free trading galleys in exchange for forging fresh ties with the Skaggossons." Shiera Seastar stood less than a foot away from him now. Her bosom heaved with each breath forcing Robb to will away his powerful erection. "Half of the game is understanding what your foes and friends alike desire most. Give it to them, or withhold it. Either option achieves the same outcome."

"What do you want?" He asked while peering deeply into those intriguing eyes. A hand reached up to caress his cheek tenderly in response. Robb Stark could do nothing as his heart raced and his mind was slammed into a firm wall.

"My motivations are not as unique as most might imagine. Power, wealth, sex," She paused thoughtfully, "Vengeance. I want it all. But no Umber, or Manderly can simply give me what I desire. That is my first lesson for you, young Stark pup. If something is worth hungering for then you must find a way to attain it _yourself_." That hand, almost tauntingly, drifted down his cheek, grazed his neck, and sept across his chest to his elbow. "We mustn't be late, my Lord," The Great Bastard smiled, as though she knew his every thought, "Your mother would be most displeased."

OOOO

Theon knew he would miss the feast, but he did not care in the slightest. Another gasp exploded from his throat as the lovely Lysene courtesan nipped his neck in all the right ways. Her lusty ministrations culminated in the agressive ripping of the simple gown which covered that sumptuous body. Silver hair, a clean-shaven cunt, and pink nipples which stood out sharply against the handmaidens silver hair. There was no escaping now unless the beautiful Valyrian wished to be fucked by the first guard that saw such sensationally large tits.

Cock throbbing the young man rushed to undress while she dealt with pouring their cups of wine. "Did your mistress wish to test my prowess," He licked his lips crudely with a throaty voice, "You can surely report back to her that us Ironborn do indeed have impressive members." At that he allowed his tunic to fall revealing, what was indeed, a very large penis.

"No, master Greyjoy," The former courtesan smiled confidently, so unlike the broken whores of Winter Town. She held the lager mug to him, breasts jiggling the whole while. He was salivating at the submissive title the clearly arrogant woman shot at him. "I was renowned for my ability to make men cum with a single breath," He tossed the mug back prior to dropping it carelessly on the floor of his chambers. "Not one of them were able to deflower me. I am no slave any longer in the North," That accent was so watery and moist, so fuckable Theon decided. She cupped both hands around his muscular back while the Greyjoy heir reached down quickly to squeeze her ample bottom. "I first considered giving my flower to Lord Robb," Andarra, he remembered her name suddenly, admitted.

"Of course," Theon muttered enviously.

"But he is much too sheltered for my tastes. I need a man who can fuck me until my voice is broken," Lilac eyes glittered with mirth, "To show me why those whores in the brothel were always squealing. So I considered giving my flower to a strong butcher, or stable boy. Until I caught sight of you." Pleasure soared through Theon's chest at that revelation which was odd given that he never really cared about what his conquests thought of him. They fell into more kissing. Tongues twisting ardently with the strange passion of their sudden encounter. Her skilled fingers worked his thick cock until he thought it might explode in barely containable rivulets of thick seed.

Theon was only too quick to push her backwards towards his bed of furs and stray silks. Hands moving down south only long enough to make sure she was at least slightly wet. "No," A firm hand pressed against his lean chest with surprising amounts of strength, "You will show me as much dedication as I would you, Theon Greyjoy. Or I can gift Jory Cassel with my flower." He stared with shock until she wrapped her hands gently behind his head, guiding powerfully lower until the Ironborn was lapping dutifully at Andarra's silky center. Thighs tightening she pressed him deeper down as Theon grew increasingly more used to showing such a mutual sexual favour. "Enough."

The muscular lad was pulled upwards by his locks of black so that they could lock lips once more. He shivered gleefully at the filthiness of Sansa Stark's handmaiden tasting her own juices off his swollen lips. "Go slowly," Andarra crooned in his ear, Theon moved further inwards prior to pressing his cock's girthy head against her slickened opening. Tauntingly so the young man proceeded as she asked; Slowly. Her tight cunt wrapped about his cock like a vice. In an uncharacteristic moment of generosity he allowed the Valyrian beauty a moment to adjust. When Andarra's discomforted hisses gave way to fulfilled sighes he started to rut forth again.

Their bodies growing slickened with sweat rather quickly. For the first time in a long while Theon did not turn around his sexual partner to finish in privacy. Violet gazed deeply into his dark eyes as thick spurts of seed were emptied into the handmaiden's belly.

OOOO

Shiera paused her flicking of worn pages when the door creaked open. "Did he drink the contents of that bottle, Andarra?" She stood to stare expectantly at the Lyseni courtesan.

"Yes, my Lady," The handmaiden stood as though her entire perspective of the world had changed. Shiera understood well enough how that felt, how strange it was to transition from sucking cocks to fucking them. "He finished inside of me too," Her newest servant showed no embarrassment at speaking of such things. Living in a brothel tended to strip even the most devout of their shyness.

"Excellent," A grim twist of the lip was all that Andarra received as a reward, "You will continue to ensnare Theon Greyjoy as planned." The Great Bastard slipped closer to her dishevelled visitor. A small, green bottle was produced from the pocket of her sleeping robes, "This must be slipped into his breakfast. You will fuck him again immediately after." A final vial, clear blue, was lifted into the dim light prior to being pressed into Andarra's remaining hand.

"What is this, my Lady?" She asked worriedly in response.

"You will meet a man with a crescent scar on his cheek in the Smoking Log after Theon Greyjoy has been satisfied." Mismatched eyes glittered venomously, "Hand him this vial. Then whisper the name, 'Jojen Reed,' in his left ear. Report back here after my meetings have finished." A little nod of understanding was all Shiera Seastar received in response before the newly deflowered maiden fled the chambers. Feet tapping about she enjoyed the comforts of being alone again. Fingers stroking absently over the books filled with information on Black Magic. Ignoring the loud noises produced outside by Winterfell's many drunk guests she waved her elegant fingers suddenly. A pestle of pungent liquid sparked with flame momentarily before fading into a turquoise poultice.

In a swift movement Shiera jerked the thick robes from her bare body. Chanting in a foreign language she began to apply the substance to large swathes of creamy flesh. Tossing a head of wild, silver tangles back the woman hissed one name, "Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell."

OOOO

Several walls and floors away Robb Stark moaned loudly in his half-drunken sleep.

OOOO

Hopefully you all enjoyed this chapter, if not then oh well, the next one will be much more political. I also skipped over the feast so that it could actually be finished this century.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: The Stone Born.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

Sansa swept back into her seat from what had been a decidedly most elegant curtsey. Beside her Robb grumbled semi-silently as he resumed drinking Old Nan's cure for crapulence. Across the very large table from them were Greatjon Umber, Smalljon Umber, and the Mountain Clan representatives. Her father's three strongest northwestern bannermen in terms of increasing strength, not including House Mormont, were the Wulls, Norreys, and First Flints. The lot of her guests were hardy warriors not so easily impressed with impeccable curtseys. "My brother and I are honoured to lead House Stark's discussions with some of our most respected vassals," She smiled at them all. Only chilly glances were shot at her in return.

"The Ned sends us a southron maiden, and a greenboy of summer," The petty Lord of Wull remarked in a growling tone. He clearly carried the mantle of the Mountain Clans with the ability to field a larger army than his neighbors, yet there was pride too. Pride that needed to be firmly broken before even the Umbers would take her seriously Sansa realized. "While he meets with Skagg scum, alongside that silver-haired _Targaryen_ whore. I lost good brothers to those dragon fuckers. _Good_ brothers, aye, too good for their memories to be tainted in such a way."

"Her name is Shiera Seastar and you wil-," Robb began to betray just how much of a greenboy he was until Sansa wrenched the room back in her control. With a heartstopping display of proficiency she had reached for the Lyseni dirk strapped across her left calf. In a matter of seconds it was pinning the Wull Lord's tunic sleeve directly to the table. Taking advantage of his shock she leant forth instantly to pull at his collar while fighting desperately not to turn red in the effort.

"We are Starks of Winterfell," She hissed out frostily, "Our blood is the same blood that ran through Torrhen Stark's veins, and all those kings who came before him. We gifted your forefathers with leniency even though initially they too failed to recognize how strong our House is in winter's coldest throes. Listen well, Lord Wull, and might my other guests do the same. Us Starks appreciate loyalty above all else, and Lady Seastar has become as much a Stark as she ever was a Targaryen. If she orders you to make peace with the Skaggossons, then you will do so without fail, and House Stark shall continue to honour your most honorable House." Here she paused prior to pushing him back, wrenching the dirk from the table only to point it unwaveringly at his throat. "Do not let your family name share the same fate as the Ambers, or Greenwoods. Winter is coming, and it is far more important than your wounded pride."

Sitting back relievedly she tried to fight away the ragged breaths which tore through her exhausted body. Greatjon Umber suddenly broke into waves of laughter which were quickly picked up on by the petty Mountain Clan Lords. Lord Wull looked properly chastised by the much younger girl's surprising adeptness with a dirk. "I must apologize to the Sansa Stark," He apologized shamefacedly.

"Let us never discuss it again, Lord Wull. Sometimes we are unable to control the boiling of tempers," Sansa responded graciously. "I could not allow myself to forget the millennia-worth of endless loyalty House Wull has displayed to Winterfell to be erased so easily." Tapping Robb, who looked absolutely shocked, on the shoulder she conveyed that it was time for him to shine.

Clearing his throat the half-awake heir began to describe the, properly cowed, Lords respective roles in Shiera's plots. "My father already announced your respective roles in the Northern road network's construction at the feast last night. My sister has proven herself an extraordinarily effective manager of Winterfell's ledgers in the past year. She will distribute the Mormont's loan to you Lord Wull, and officially task you with transporting it after this meeting ends." Here he passed each of them charts of the work which had yet to begin. "These blueprints were personally handcrafted by Lady Shiera's team of engineers. You will each direct your men to begin working as designated upon returning home."

Here he paused for a long, discernable moment prompting their Lordly guests to grow cautious. Sansa knew well enough that it was always a poor decision to let bad news sink in. The recipients needed to be blindsided with such matters so that they could not grow prepared to negotiate. "My father and Lady Shiera have decided to implement a centralized system with regards to survival during winter. From here on forth each corner of the North will be organized into one of four food pooling systems. With regards to agricultural production there will cease to be any discongruity between the Houses."

"Tax breaks will be given to any Lords who manage to produce more food, or to improve their production rates," Sansa interjected, "Which should more than make up for any financial loss of crops. We stand together here in the North, in the face of winter. I will hear no arguments against this proposal." All of the Lords sat glowering across the table in response to this. Knowing that Robb certainly lacked the finesse for what came next she cut him off abruptly. "At this very moment Lady Shiera is doubtlessly proposing that the Skagosson be included in a storage system with Last Hearth and Karhold."

Greatjon Umber went so far as to pound a fist against the table in fury while his son reacted with just as little enthusiasm. "YOU EXPECT US TO FEED THOSE FILTHY, GOAT FUCKING, COCK SUCKING SKAGGS?" The gargantuan man bellowed ferociously. Robb took hold of Sansa's dagger before pointing it skillfully at the Umber Lord. Each of the three Mountain Clan Lords stood to defend her as well.

" _My father_ , Lord Stark," She corrected the idiotic man frostily, "Expects us all to come together in the face of an imminent, potentially long winter. If the Skaggossons have survived this long on their own with such large numbers imagine what we can learn from them! Unless you are willing to look the many mothers and fathers beneath your protection in the eyes one day soon. To tell them that their children died of hunger because you were more interested in prolonging ancient rivalries."

"She is right, father," Smalljon Umber growled reluctantly, sheathing his sword and sitting again. His father sheathed the greatsword in his hand viciously, yet did not follow suit. He simply remained standing with an angry look in those eyes.

"We would never force either House Karstark or House Umber to betroth their children to any Skaggossons," Robb spoke to relieve any tension. Directing all the faces away from a very relieved Sansa momentarily. "However, it should be noted that each of the noble Houses of Skagos will be expected to begin forging mainland connections as a fundamental part of negotiations. Any Houses that agree to do the North such a service will earn much favour with House Stark."

The Smalljon seemed much more cunning than his father, for what little that said about him. In a few moments he calmed himself and seemed to have recognized what a disservice their twin outbursts had done them. "I am not yet married," The heir of House Umber spoke firmly, "Nor is my youngest sister Edwylla. If we were to consider such a proposal how far exactly would House Stark's favour extend?"

"Last Hearth would be granted the majority of the fabric masters from Lys. With their aid your family's' role in the North's wool trade would be greatly enhanced," Robb answered swiftly. Though it was clear from the Smalljon's disappointed frown that he had been hoping for more.

"I make no promises," Sansa noticed Robb's jaw tighten at her latest interjection, "But perhaps if either you or your sister were to have a daughter within a suitable period of time she could be betrothed to my brother Rickon. My father is the superior power in the North, as my brother will be after his death though. The best I can give you is my word, Lord Umber, that I will personally show my full support for such a match." A marriage to any of the Stark children was perhaps the most desirable reward any Northern Lord could hope for. Sansa knew her parents would not agree with such a sentiment, yet wedding Rickon to Edwylla's child would give them strong, new ties.

"I pledge too that I shall follow my sister in arranging such a betrothal," Robb declared supportively. Surprising Sansa by a fair amount. Having the Heir of Winterfell throw his name behind that particular agreement seemed to settle Smalljon Umber immensely. The Lord of Last Hearth even sat down into his seat. Both of the siblings then proceeded to describe several new developments which would prepare the North for winter. The first of which being their Lord Father's new rule that any women or children seeking shelter and work be provided guest right. The second, regarding full complicity with the 'diggers' of Mole's Town who would begin constructing their dens beneath almost every Northern settlement.

Finally left alone the pair simply sighed at one another. Too exhausted to even remark at all upon Sansa's sudden talent for handling dirks.

OOOO

Catelyn had been unable to keep herself away from the meeting between Ned and the Skaggossons. She truly should have attended Robb and Sansa's discussions instead though the Lady of Winterfell could not resist. These discussions would impact the reach of Winterfell's influence for her grandchildren and, hopefully, their grandchildren in turn. Either Lady Shiera would manage to bring Skagos beneath House Stark's might, or hostilities would brew even more fiercely than the last time. Blue eyes peered cautiously at the three Lords who stood before them in Winterfell's former throne room.

There was Lord Crowl from Deepdown which rested just beyond the Wall. He looked absolutely savage compared to his compatriots and audaciously wore a crown of dull stone. Beside him hobbled the old Lord of House Stane from Driftwood Hall who seemed to have survived many winters by little more than the skin of his teeth. Taller than either of the Skaggosson warriors was Clement Magnar who stood at almost twenty-and-one hands. Reedy, swift on the feet no doubt, and probably quite formidable with a spear. "My dear Lords of Skagos," Shiera Seastar announced from her position next to Catelyn, in turn Ned was positioned at her other elbow. "Winterfell welcomes you with open arms," She was absolutely radiant as always in a dress of white and grey furs.

Even after having just exited talks with Jeor Mormont the woman's mismatched eyes seemed as shrewd as ever. When the 'dear Lords of Skagos' stared sullenly at the Great Bastard she simply smiled dangerously. "You have brought three-thousand swords to our gates. Lord Stark has sent ravens to the Tallharts, Cerwyns, and Karstarks asking that we be reinforced with double that number of Stark men. Though I doubt after you have heard our offers that any Skagosi blood will be spilt again. Please take your seats, my Lords."

Clement Magnar did as was asked of him while a visibly uncertain Lord Stane followed his liege's lead. Lord Crowl did not, however, make any motions to sit. "Unless you are offering us those tits on a platter," The foolish, young Lord sneered, "I have no interest in breaking bread with Starks, Targaryen." An increasingly frosty Lord Stark had just started to tense as though preparing to defend his ward's honor when Clement Magnar rose to both feet again. In a swift series of movements he gripped the Crowl boy by the back of his long hair, kicked his knees from under him, then bashed that smug face against the table at a ferocious speed. The crown of dull stones fell to the floor only to roll far away.

The Crowl guards looked tempted to rise upwards in retaliation though they were greatly outnumbered by both the Stark men and other Skaggossons. "You must understand one thing, Lord Stark," The Magnar plopped back into his seat while Lord Crowl slumped limply against the table set opposite of Ned's high seat. "It was not easy to bring my men to Winterfell for discussions. This one bitching incessantly," He poked a gruff thumb in Crowl's direction, "And the other constantly scheming behind my back." Dark-blue eyes glowered up at them all, "So I truly hope whatever this Targaryen has to offer is worthwhile."

"I will be making all of the offers," Ned sounded coldly firm, like a true Lord of Winterfell, "Though Lady Seastar's efforts in arranging this meeting cannot be understated." He flicked his hand out prompting Maester Luwin, who stood to the side, to spread parchments before Lord Magnar. "The North is preparing to grow and develop into many new industries. Skagos can play a vital role in these developments if sufficient steps towards total assimilation are taken."

"Sufficient steps?" Lord Stane queried cautiously. Catelyn shivered somewhat at the mild resemblance between this man and Walder Frey. "Your Northmen would never allow us to accomplish such a task. Our entire journey to this wretched place was in vain."

"The forging of potential betrothals was no easy feat," Lady Shiera spoke over his growing rage. "Though I am pleased to inform you, Lord Stane, that the Umbers have agreed just this morning to such a proposal." Catelyn remained stoic even though her surprise was stronger than the Breaking of Dorne's Arm. The Targaryen Princess had received a message from a red-faced serving girl only moments before the meeting began. What exactly had Sansa and Robb managed to accomplish in their meeting with the Umbers? "Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth has offered the hands of his heir, Jon, and daughter, Edwylla, to Skagos in the hopes of forging strong, bold ties."

"Lord Crowl has no children and wedded this very year," Clement Magnar frowned, "Which means that I shall wed Edwylla Umber." His willingness, albeit reluctant, was stunning to Catelyn. She wondered how poor the conditions were on Skagos that they would work with Winterfell just for economic opportunity. "Lord Stane has a daughter who might be suitable for the heir of Last Hearth." With a face that looked as sour as though he had bitten into a lemon Lord Stane nodded reluctantly. He suddenly clapped at having received the support of his vassal. The doors behind him were opened in response allowing a beautiful woman inside. Certainly not comparable to Lady Seastar or Sansa, in Catelyn's opinion, though already the men were swooning. "My sister, Syggi," He called loudly to the Lord of Winterfell, "Has journeyed here with us. She would make a good bride for your son. Would she not, Lord Stark?"

Instantly a coldness fell across the former throne room as the Northmen peered up at Ned for his response. The Manderlys, who sat on Catelyn's left as honoured observers, stiffened noticeably at that boisterous offer. It was pushing boundaries enough for Winterfell to tighten relations with Skagos at all. If Robb, the most desirable bachelor in the North, the highest honor that could be bestowed upon any of their vassal Houses, were wedded to this Magnar girl it would create pandemonium. "No," Shiera protested firmly and stepping well above her place as a result, "Robb Stark has far too many prospects to be committed so strongly at this point in time. Pardon my bluntness, Lord Magnar."

"My brother may forgive your bluntness," Siggy Magnar responded instead, "Though I shall have a much harder time of it. Lady Targaryen." She was curt though clearly as commanding a presence as her brother. Curled locks so blonde they looked white fell wildly about her shoulder. A lithe body draped in grey furs poised itself gracefully about the air itself. Catelyn did not doubt for a single moment that this young Skagosi Lady was not a capable warrior.

"Perhaps it may be a consolation, Lady Magnar," Shiera remained peaceable, "If I offered you a position in Lady Sansa Stark's court?" It had visibly been less appealing of a prospect than becoming the future Lady of Winterfell. Syggi Magnar's eyes glimmered with the force of a lightning storm as she verbally agreed to accept such an 'honor'. Catelyn was merely happy that she had not needed to protect Robb from an arranged marriage. The Lady of Winterfell was not ready to send any of her babes off to the arms of another House.

"Upon witnessing such a willingness to become fully aligned with the rest of the North I am inclined to discuss future matters of commerce." Ned nodded to Clement Magnar who looked quite interestedly upwards. Standing beside the Lord's chair was his pretty sister whose shrewd gaze practically pierced into Ned's form. "Lord Commander Mormont signed an agreement today which will turn Eastwatch-by-the-Sea into the major lumber provider of the North's newest ship building industry."

"I have visited the wall myself," Shiera interjected at Ned's pause, "There are many vast thickets of weirwood forests. Using that wood should allow us to produce ships of a greater quality than most of the Free Cities. The Night's Watch will be clearing them by the league anyways to start a greater agricultural production." The Manderlys seemed to swell bitterly at being so removed from such abundance of a profitable resource. The Magnar siblings clearly were beginning to recognize just how wealthy their House might become. "Of course, before we even consider lending Skagos Essosi shipwrights, or this supply of weirwood, a port will need to be built. Many sailors I have spoken with throughout my time as the North's economic advisor have alleged that Skagos is entirely unnavigable."

Of course the two Lords seemed reluctant to answer this question. It would be akin to a Stark sending ravens to each of the Great Houses with a list of secret paths through the Neck. "The waters at Kingshouse are mild enough that a port could be established," Syggi Magnar pounced. There was a hungry gleam to the girl's gaze as though she were tired of wearing simple furs. Catelyn had met many women like this one before her, and Skagos in its current state was almost certainly not enough. "We are willing to take a loan from House Stark, as House Mormont has," She stared at Ned instead of Lady Shiera, "So long as you agree to include us in this new industry once the port is completed."

"Such an agreement will occur after your brother and his vassals recognize that there are new obligations to be seen through. We will expect the Lords of Skagos to arrive at Winterfell whenever summoned, renew oaths of fealty bi-annually to the Starks of Winterfell, pay their taxes consistently, filter men through the Night's Watch supplementation alongside the rest of the north-eastern contingent, form trade relations with the rest of the North, and honor betrothals," Lady Shiera paused for breath. "Failure to comply with any of these stipulations will result in the immediate halting of your monthly loan disbursements."

Here Ned place a halting, fatherly hand on her shoulder. "Further disobedience will bring the wolves of winter, and all of our allies, to your home. An event in which a rapid change of leadership will occur." His voice boomed commandingly across the hall as all in attendance took heed. Catelyn had never been more impressed by Lady Shiera Seastar's ambitions than when the Lords of Skagos, those that mattered anyways, signed the contractual agreement.

OOOO

Jeor Mormont's death was an incredibly shocking affair. Barely into the night after he had signed a lengthy contract with her father the Bear of the Wall plummeted to his death from the First Keep. Pushed by none other than Ser Alliser Thorne who had accompanied him from the Wall. Oddly enough the man claimed fervently that he was innocent of the charges despite having been caught in the act by five witnesses. Sansa brushed her auburn hair while thinking of the strange events which now would presumably leave Uncle Benjen as Lord Commander. Hardly a fact to be scoffed at given that Winterfell would now have far more influence over the Gift.

A soft knock on the door marked Lady Shiera's sudden entrance into the spacious chambers. "You did splendidly persuading the Umbers to agree to a betrothal," The woman complimented while taking control of the hair brushing.

"Robb was the final nail in the coffin," Sansa protested earnestly, "I only managed it because he threw his word in behind mine."

"No," Shiera Seastar emitted a knowing chuckle, "You managed to lead a room full of men, Northern men at that, to a conclusion. Your brother was a tool in bringing them to yielding what you wanted." Auburn flowed loosely like strands of silk between pale fingers.

"How do I know you are not doing the same to me at this very moment?" The thought had been ruminating in the eldest Stark daughter's head for quite a long while.

Silence rung sharply for the first time in their relationship. "We both know the answer to that question. Do we not Sansa? If you are clever enough to question my motivations then you are surely clever enough to deduce my sincerity."

"I have never questioned you sincerity, Lady Seastar," The girl answered firmly, "Though I wonder how long your interests shall align with those of House Stark. Andarra has been traipsing off on various secret missions for you. A Manderly handmaiden claimed that she has been rutting with Theon Greyjoy." With some hesitance she whispered the next bit, "I also believe that you have something to do with Alliser Thorne going berserk last night." Such was a dangerous thing to speak aloud. With so many Northern Lords lurking about any overheard words would have surely meant no less than Shiera's execution.

"The most important thing I will ever tell you Sansa Stark," Fingers dug reassuringly into her shoulders, "Is that the past is the past. There are things yet to be done to secure both of our futures. My role for this phase of those plans has been completed. Now you must do your part as well."

"Swear on your honor," Sansa responded in a steely tenor, "That I, nor my family, have any reason to fear that you will betray us."

Those well-manicured fingers swept down to the tops of her arms in response. "Your mother and father gave me shelter when they could have handed me over to Robert Baratheon on a platter. They trusted me with the tutelage of their intelligent daughters, trusted me with the Northern economy, and defended my prospects as though I were of their own flesh. I swear on my honor that your family fits quite nicely within all of my ambitions."

Taking a steadying breath the blossoming beauty nodded as though to reassure herself. "What is my role in this phase of your plans?"

Shiera smiled once more at that, "You proved to your father's most rambunctious men that you are no mere blushing maiden. Just as I requested. Now comes the time to properly cement that burgeoning reputation." Mismatched eyes glittered dangerously, "Convince Lord Stark to allow you to attend the public execution of Ser Alliser Thorne. Then stand alongside your brothers as any true Stark might."

OOOO

Shiera Seastar smiled as she entered into her own chambers. Wasting no time removing her clothing despite the company present. Andarra stood with plated hands by the end of the bed. "You did a splendid job," The Targaryen Princess crooned, placing both hands on the Lyseni handmaiden's cheeks. A cautious hand moved to make certain that the knots attached to the bedpost were, in fact, tight enough. "Lord Stark will not be seeking him out this evening?"

"They only just finished speaking with one another, my Lady," That thick accent responded, "I intercepted him at his chambers immediately after."

"Excellent," The beauty turned so that the laces of her gown could be loosened. "On my desk are the vials intended for Theon Greyjoy. Visit him again, and remember to take your moon tea before you fall asleep." The pretty young woman nodded before doing as bidden. Leaving not a moment later. Shiera basked for a moment at being left alone to her task. Relishing the noises of struggle behind her creamy back as she pulled various objects from their drawers. "It has been a very long time since I had a man," The Targaryen allowed a single shoulder to be completely revealed. Grey eyes glared venomously in her direction as she allowed the gown to drop completely. "I will enjoy this union very much. You men always think yourselves in charge. At least this time we will begin with the true dynamic having already been revealed."

Delicate hands lifted a knife along the hem of his trousers, slashing them away easily enough. The struggles only grew more fierce in response. Muscled legs squirmed mightily as a monstrous erection visibly tented his worn braies. Then there went the tunic leaving behind forests of black body hair that tangled above bulging muscles. Such struggles were for naught however, as the ropes binding him to the bed would not be loosened for several hours more. Foreign symbols that carried an air of anciency were scrawled across that attractive body with a pungent paste. Red as blood, and it flickered like fire beneath the torchlight.

"Andarra did well in grooming your appearance," The vibrant, buxom, nude Targaryen chuckled throatily. Her fingers caressed where a coarse beard had been replaced with dark stubble, reaching up to stroke at much shorter tangles of black hair. "They train courtesans quite well in Lys. Women like that can simply gaze at a man, or even another woman, and tell exactly what they like. I prefer a well-groomed man myself." More squirming came as her, now slimy, fingers began to unlace his only remaining article of clothing. "That is nice," She smiled delightedly whilst slashing away the white fabric. More patterns were drawn from his groin to the bottoms of his feet. Tipping her head back the sorceress slipped into the luxurious bed of silks to straddle the air above the man's girthsome cock.

Reaching down Shiera tipped it perfectly upright before sliding down as slowly as seemed to be possible. "Noj zhiers lonha trinha, Benjen Stark," The woman hissed as she whipped her hips back and forth atop the muscular man's body. Fingers stretched outwards as her head tossed back in a wave of platinum-silver. His gag was removed allowing heated gasps of lust to break out into the cold air. Like a racing stallion she pound her sensuous body down harder on the bound man's body. Plenty of time passed as the Great Bastard made love for the first time in decades. She enjoyed it for as long as was possible before suddenly leaning forth at the very end. Tangles of exotically-coloured hair blocked their face from the light as a primal exchange occurred.

Foreign buzzing noises were exchanged for Benjen Stark's stolen seed. The candles guttered out in an invisible breeze. Growing silent Shiera Seastar rose in the night air with closed eyes. They opened suddenly flashing a light grey only to return to normal with a rapid blink. Each of the candles flared back to their prior brilliancy revealing a startling sight. Sunken into Benjen Stark's skin like a tattoo were whirling, crimson sigils. Sighing contentedly, with a coquettish tossing of her slim shoulders, Shiera leant down so she was nestled against his unconcious form.

"You have much to accomplish for me at the Wall yet, Benjen Stark."

OOOO

Next Chapter: The Red Rose of Winterfell.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: The Red Rose of Winterfell.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

(Warning: Theon never wins.)

OOOO

It was not often that Sansa Stark visited her father's solar. Of all her siblings she always received the least attention from the Lord of Winterfell, even behind Jon Snow. More recently they had begun to butt heads with increasing frequency as Sansa continued to grow into her own. Still, despite their vast disconnect she still respected her father's power. How his incredible influence across Westeros, even from the North, protected their family. "My Lord," She did not dare call him 'father' for fear that it may leave her looking like a tyke, "I must request something of you. Something that no father would ever willingly agree to." Grey eyes peered questioningly into Tully-blue. "I implore you to allow me to stand alongside my brothers when Alliser Thorne is executed."

Anger flashed across his face at this appeal. "Do you think me a savage? Some wildling that would force his daughter to watch something so brutal?" Cool calm, even more terrifying than the rage appeared at that last remark. "Why would you dare to ask me for such a thing, Sansa?"

"I am no southron maiden," She recalled Lord Wull's harsh words, "It is time for the North, and our people to see that. My duty as a Stark is to execute the laws of our King, and our ancestors. Winter waits for no one, not even women. Allow me to learn your ways before it is too late father. Please."

He sat back in response to her concise plea, "Your mother would never forgive me if I said yes."

"Mother," Sansa bit back defiantly, "As much as we love her, is a Tully. I am a Stark of Winterfell. Long before the Targaryens arrived my great-grandmothers, the She-Wolves of the North, were carrying out executions themselves. If I honor their memories our most loyal bannermen will respect us all the more. From Bear Island to Skagos."

"All the same I cannot have you fainting at the merest drawing of blood," His easy dismissal prompted Sansa's own blood to burn. To boil so mightily that it felt as though her innards would be scorched into mutton. She recalled her mother telling her tales of how Hoster Tully had all-but raised her as his rightful heir. Remembered Shiera disclosing how Kings, bankers, and merchants had trusted her with the affairs of men. Why could she not be held to the same standards for once.

Standing abruptly, the girl knocked her heavy seat over in a flourish of plainly coloured wool. "I will bleed every moon soon enough. My children will tear my flesh one day causing me to bleed again. Every night I will worry that my sons shall be fated to die in some unfortunate battle. If I cannot blanche in the face of all that blood then I shall certainly not do so tomorrow." Realizing that she would no doubt now be punished Sansa tried to breathe deeply while bowing her head away from him. Looking down at the floor, and presumably making herself look very much like the child she actually was.

A chuckle started at first only to resonate into a chorus of vibrant snickers. Shocked, Sansa looked up in time to catch her father looking far more youthful than she had ever seen him before. The Lord of Winterfell was replaced by a dashing man, even more handsome than Benjen, for the briefest of moments. Then, a sadness seemed to settle back down on him with rigid force. Leaving nothing but an exhausted Lord Paramount in its wake. "I always believed that you were perfectly tempered, my girl. A perfect Lady like your mother. Though I can see now that you have that Wolf's Blood." Grey eyes glimmered warningly, "Even the barest touch of it must be taken seriously. Hidden deep inside for your own safety. Otherwise you will share the same fate as your uncle Brandon, and aunt Lyanna."

There was another surprising comparison to her aunt Lyanna. Though with all the pain caused by that woman's abduction Sansa could easily agree any similarities needed to be hidden. "You will stand alongside your brothers. Though I suppose that means Arya must be permitted to do so as well." He stared firmly at her, "It is your responsibility to prepare your sister for what is to come."

With a curtsy, Sansa fled the solar without even bothering to stop and pick the heavy chair back up. "Summon my sister from her needlework lessons with Septa Mordane at once," She informed Andarra who waited outside with the Ladies of Sansa's court. "Lady Wylla, please find several handmaidens to assist you with the preparation of two baths. Lady Jonelle, and Lady Jeyne, I need the both of you finish the stitching on the gowns I began preparing last week." They rushed off leaving Sansa with the newest of her Ladies-in-Waiting. Likewise, the one who she most distrusted. "Lady Syggi," The Stark girl began to sweep forth while the pretty Skaggosson followed, "I need you to tell me what it is like to see a man die."

"Is that why you refused to tell me the purpose of your visit to Lord Stark?" The bold, warrior-woman asked while easily keeping pace. "You plan to attend the execution of Alliser Thorne tomorrow?"

"I plan to follow the old ways," Sansa responded firmly, "Focus on remembering that your family serves mine now. Do not question my motivations again, Syggi Magnar." A pause followed as the Stark girl gripped the much stronger, older woman by the shoulder. Mostly using what little weight she had claim to Sansa shoved her Lady-in-Waiting against the wall with an elbow pressed against her marblesque neck. Peering upwards into mildly resentful eyes she smiled wickedly, "I will call, you will answer. Respect this natural, hierarchical dynamic if you have any intelligence. I shall reward you in turn with a powerful, handsome, Southron husband who shall admire your prettiness and swathe you in lovely silks."

A frosty glare narrowed before Syggi Magnar nodded haughtily. "Seeing a man die reminds you how frail we all are. You watch the blade cut through the flesh and bone like it is butter. That head will roll while blood splatters over whatever pretty little dress you wear tomorrow." An easy smile rolled over her red lips, "Perhaps it will be a dreadful sight for such a delicate little Lady as yourself, but remember the crowd that will be watching. March forth despite the sickness, pick up that head by its greasy hair, and give it to your uncle with a poignant little speech. I will clean the blood that stains your gown as any faithful servant would. Waiting patiently for my powerful, Southron Lord, one execution at a time."

"Leave," Sansa stepped away while releasing Syggi from her weakening stranglehold. "Send your personal guards to Winter Town and beyond to draw as many Smallfolk to the execution as is possible. Have them visit every nearby inn to disseminate the word that the daughters of Ned Stark will be present." She found herself delighted to have finally found a use for Syggi Magnar's presence in her court. The young woman came with a band of fifteen, ferocious savages from Skagos. Advice regarding masculine matters women did not oft venture into, and a band of men not associated with her father _or_ Shiera. Lady Jonelle would be wedded long before Sansa ever willingly gave up such a useful ally.

Fingers twisting in nervous wringing movements the eldest Stark daughter was relieved that a bath would soon be greeting her. Confronting Lord Paramounts and accosting Skagosson warrior-women was the definition of perspirant inducing work.

OOOO

Arya Stark hated dresses, and being forced to act at looking a pretty little Lady. She was no such thing. Though the North liked to pretend even as they scorned their Southron neighbours for the same. Fingers itching into fists Arya forced herself to relax them after recalling that Lady Seastar would notice from wherever she secretly watched the execution. The Great Bastard, no matter how kind, was just as keen at spotting even the smallest inelegances as Septa Mordane had been. In order of age she followed her siblings in organizing alongside the chopping block.

Normally executions took place privately well beyond the walls of Winterfell. This was no typical matter however. A Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had been murdered by his own brother. The Smallfolk drove out in thick crowds by the hundreds with bloodthirst written plainly across their faces. They did not matter quite so much as the Mormonts of Bear Island did, Sansa had reminded her during their baths the previous evening. It was a Stark's responsibility to protect the Lords and Ladies they called vassals. By making this affair public they would be enabled to remind every, last Northern House that such protection would indeed remain. 'Father will not live forever, sweet sister,' Sansa whispered with her beautiful voice sometimes. Arya could appreciate that now as they all stood on the stage together.

Robb, who looked ever so stalwartly chivalrous from his spot beside father, would one day take up the mantle of executioner. Bran and Rickon were both destined to make their own fortunes in, presumably, bloody ways. Sansa's fate would be bound tightly to that of her future husband. Arya had no idea what life would hold in store for a girl like her, but she recognized that Ned Stark would not always be able to shield her from it. So with a ramrod straight spine she watched as her father prepared himself to deliver the justice of Winterfell. Ignoring the throngs of maddened peasants who clamoured with spittle-covered gobs for blood to splatter across their faces.

"Do you have any last words Alliser Thorne?" The Lord of Winterfell asked in his booming voice. "Before you are executed for the murder of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont? For betraying the Night's Watch you vowed to serve, the Realm you vowed to protect, and the man you vowed your loyalty?" A broken sob strangled from the man's throat as he clawed despairingly at his greasy face. Arya wondered if the hard-faced, sinewy man had gone insane. Perhaps what left in such a state was what had led to Jeor Mormont falling from the Great Keep.

"Then I, Eddard Stark, in the name of King Robert Baratheon, first of his name," A pause, "Sentence you to die." Ice flashed in a mighty arc as the Valyrian Steel flashed hungrily downwards upon treasonous blood. Head removed from body, cut as easily as one of the strings of thread in Septa Mordane's sewing lessons. Though blood never splattered so violently across the floors of the sewing room. Licking across the edges of the Ladies pretty gowns as it did now. Following in her siblings suits, even Sansa, Arya kept her grey eyes focused intently on the horrific aftermath. She felt powerful in that moment, as strong as any man at having successfully stomached such a gruesome sight.

"Father," Sansa interrupted suddenly with the demurity of a Southron Septa. Arya blinked confusedly before regaining the control of her features that Shiera always claimed could mean the difference between life and death. Her sister had mentioned nothing of plotting to steal the Smallfolk's attention from their father the prior evening. Draped in a heavy, black cloak the blossoming beauty stepped forth firmly. Abandoning effortless grace in favour of steely measure. Betraying her flair for the dramatic the girl reached upwards to untie the woolen cloak, allowing it to fall down behind her on the stage. "We allow ourselves to fall into silence," She did not bellow, but projected as a skilled orator would, "While a foul, treasonous spirit engulfs our unified company with its maliciousness." Murmurs of assent came from some of the crowd. Others still eyed her sister lustily as she radiated majestically in a shoulderless gown of silk. Woven from the colours of House Stark.

"Do not allow yourselves, or your stalwart honor, to waver underneath the lingering darkness of Alliser Thorne's treachery. Now is the time to cry out! To clamour for justice! To support House Stark in continuing the battle against those with wickedness in their hearts!" Cries started to spread like wildfire at her words as men began to chant the name, 'Stark', at the top of their lungs. Bending gracefully Sansa lifted the decapitated head into the air by its head. Stepping through the river of blood she paused before Uncle Benjen who stood on the other side of their father. A symbolic sign of his removal from the family due to the Night's Watch vows. "Place this head on a pike from atop the wall, Benjen Stark," She spoke in a resonating tone to the now beardless man, "So that all men on both sides of the Wall can see that Brandon the Builder's promise of protection will forever flourish beneath our family's parmountacy."

Winterfell shook from the sheer response to Sansa's righteous speech. Arya recalled in that moment that all of their guests, except the Skaggossons, had yet to depart. All of the Mountain Clans, Umbers, Manderlys, and their vassals in turn would hear of this. Word would certainly spread across the North, perhaps even to the Dustins and Ryswells by the time they stopped in to discipline during their journey south. Feeling the burning heat of a pair of eyes she glanced away from her sister's triumph to where Shiera stood on the walls of Winterfell. Looking down on them all as though she were some sort of puppetmaster. The Great Bastard's mismatched gaze was not directed at Sansa, however, but at Arya herself. A shiver ran through the girl at the message which was impossible to not comprehend.

Her turn was soon coming. To stand on a platform somewhat like this one, and put everything on the line like Sansa was now. The only question was whether she would sink or swim attempting such a thing. Trying to find some semblance of power when women were not allowed to do so in their world.

OOOO

"Trycharios finds the Court of Glass to be very droll," Johanna Rogare commented blythely as she lazed on her chaise. Unlike in Westeros, women in Lys were encouraged to seek the sun's kiss. Every so often a slave, the latest handsome man from the retinue Johanna took an interest in, slathered creams on her scantily clad body. Golden skin was desirable, but the ravages of the sun upon the aging process were not. She was as beautiful as her namesake the Black Swan, her many greats grandmother coincidentally, had been. Though in a different way entirely. Instead of raven black ringlets this Johanna sported hair of lovely silver with bright, violet eyes. Common by Lysene standards yet the sixteen-year-old would be wedded off easily enough.

"Unsurprising," Drazenko, third of his name, Rogare smiled painfully tight, "Given what a fool our young brother is. How long will it take him to realize that the fun is in playing the game?" The handsome man read through correspondences of his own. Yes, the Court of Glass was very important to the Bank of Rogare's continued survival in Lys, though he had loftier ambitions. He wanted to not only survive, but drink the blood of the Braavosi scum that had viciously stamped out the Rogare influence so long ago. So hungry to correct the past wrongs of his ancestors that he plotted in Westeros behind his uncle's back.

"Leave us, slave," Johanna purred commandingly so that they were left in secure silence. "Zenko," She sighed in a much softer tone whilst standing to both feet, "Why must you drag our family back towards Westeros? Back into that cesspit of doom?" Her billowy gown of white, Myrish silk was laced tightly back in place before she turned to face him. "Uncle Medore cannot be fooled twice, brother," The Rogare beauty snarled suddenly, "If I noticed that the entire host from your trip to 'Quarth' was privately executed then he certainly did too. He is just as intelligent as you are."

"Yes," Drazenko agreed easily, "Yet operates with the ambition of a pickled cod."

"How can you say that?" She was growing angry, and betraying her greatest weakness in the process. His sister was still so young, and Drazenko debated internally if he could truly accomplish what needed to be done with only two children at his side. Trycharios could not manage House Rogare's affairs alone whilst balancing his vows to Court of Glass at the same time. Strained, inexperience would surely weaken their House's position while he visited Riverrun. Then there was the matter of Johanna. Older than their thirteen-year-old brother though still far from the historical Rogare Queen, the Lyra Rogare that he required. "Uncle Medore took charge of this family at our weakest. When mother and father died! When the bank's coffers dried up! He saved us from ruin. Saved _me_ from a life spent sucking the cocks of arrogant, righteous Magisters."

Johanna was clever enough to comprehend the general direction of his machinations. However, he was disappointed their normally close bond had failed to work its way into her mind. That the siblingship which connected them could be so easily defeated by distrust. "He did, sister," Drazenko stared disappointedly in her direction, lilac eyes flashing tiredly. "I will never forget the role our uncle played in revitalizing this House. Unfortunately that role is finished." A pause as he gnashed his pearly-white teeth. Was she ready to be thrown into adulthood? To learn the true extent of the threats which faced them? "Read this, Hanna," He proffered a letter that was only a month old in her direction.

With a breathy scowl she ripped the parchment into her grasp. Golden-kissed skin grew progressively whiter with each rereading of the terrifying news. "Why can they not leave us be?" She cried suddenly, throwing the paper at him prior to spinning towards the sun. "The arrested us, executed us, exiled us, desecrated our wealth, and now they wish to…."

"Annihilate us." He stood to turn her back around by the elbow. "Hanna," Drazenko's heart wrenched at the sight of those now paranoid eyes flickering wildly about. Johanna was close enough to the adult he required the assistance of, but at what cost? "The Iron Bank have plotted against us for decades. Even the marginal growth created by Uncle Medore is enough to raise the flames of their ire. We must act now to become unreachable. To grow faster than our ancestors did so we might be safe from the reach of those Faceless dogs."

"Does our Uncle know? Have you shown him this… Death warrant?" She spat viciously.

"No," Drazenko shook his head of raven-black locks. "You recognize as well as I that he would force us to flee. To give up what little our family has left. Then we would be absolutely powerless to fight off a foe so mighty. Of little better station than our Targaryen cousins who cower in Pentos."

"What do you have planned?" Johanna's face crumpled to an expression of defeated resolve.

"I will have our uncle sent far away for his own safety. Perhaps one of our estates in Oldtown will prove sufficient with a sizeable, household guard." A pause, "That will signal my intentions to Braavos though which means that you and Trycharios must also be involved. He will be given Shiera Targaryen's vote on the Council of Magistrates to oversee. She also charged me with setting her estate to rights while she remains in Westeros."

"None of the Magistrates will be pleased to hear that the Rogares have a vote on the council again." Johanna gasped surprisedly. "They would sooner execute and exile us from Lys once more than allow that to happen. Trycharios is far from ready to triumph over such political resistance."

"That is why you will be in charge of poisoning the Head Magister within the fortnight. Besides all of the chaos, a headless council will be unable to effectively organize against us. Nothing negative will happen until we have returned from Westeros." He had an answer for every one of her questions, especially the next one.

"We?" She queried cautiously.

"Yes, sister," Drazenko nodded firmly. "We will travel to Riverrun together. I shall broker an advantageous agreement with the Tullys and Arryns. You shall focus on attempting to wed Edmure Tully."

"Edmure _Tully_?" She looked dangerously close to punching him. "I am a Rogare! I could have my pick of the most influential, handsomest Magistrates on the council."

A shrug was all Johanna received in response. "Lose this undeserved pride, sister. Our name is dilapidated, ruinous, undesirable. If you can broker a better match in Westeros then you may attempt to do so. Though accept now that you will not be wedding anyone from Essos. We must look beyond the reach of Braavos if our security is ever to be regained." The letters were stuffed into his tunic pocket again as he linked his arm with her own. "Edmure Tully is a drunk, a whoremonger, and from what I hear, a fool. You will make a perfect compliment to his weakness in every way. This match will draw us into an unbreakable alliance with the Riverlands. Hoster Tully is aging poorly according to the spy I placed in Riverrun. If I convince him of House Rogare's return to prominence he will only be all too agreeable to this proposed betrothal."

"I suppose if it saves us all from assassination at the hands of Braavos I will do it," She sighed acquiescently. High praise of his matchmaking abilities indeed.

OOOO

Theon Greyjoy did not understand what was causing him to grow so dizzy. To lose himself to the darkness of oblivion for days at a time. He was trapped in his own mind though no one in Winterfell seemed to notice. Eddard Stark had even praised him one week earlier for a recent implementation of proposals to improve the living conditions of the poor. Something Theon could not recall having occurred. This happened often, the periods of mental absence growing longer and longer. Yet he could not confide in anyone without sounding absolutely berserk. A trip to Maester Luwin would certainly lead to him being under the careful watch of a guard for the remainder of his imprisonment at Winterfell.

Unable to do anything to fight this disquieting disconnect between body and mind he only grew cruder. Subconsciously the Greyjoy heir attempted to erase the good his alter ego was performing by committing vile acts in those rare moments when his mind was actually clear. That morning he took advantage of Alliser Thorne's execution, and Sansa Stark's preoccupation with the matter, to dally about with Wylla Manderly in the darkest corners of the stables. Afterwards he travelled to Winter Town, kicking a beggar in the face from atop his horse prior to losing all sense of self in a drunken orgy at the brothel. Now he leant against the door to his humble chambers. Grinning lecherously in the candlelight at a serving maid who scrubbed the floors of Winterfell.

She was new, fresh, delectable. He had not stuck his cock in this one, nor was she one of the Stark bitch's prudish servants who knew to steer well clear of him. Golden hair, a rare trait in the North, was pinned tightly in a bun on the back of her head. The restrictive nature of the household uniform did little to hide a delectably curvaceous form. "What could a lovely thing like you do to wind up scrubbing floors so late at night?" He strutted forth predatorily.

Pretty brown eyes peered upwards at him without any suspicion. Definitely new to Winterfell. "I accidentally splashed a bucket of water on Lady Poole's skirts this morning, milord," She sputtered out nervously. He wondered if she was intimidated by his handsomeness, or by his Noble blood, or even both.

"These floors look clean enough to me…" He paused cunningly, practically able to smell the stench of innocence on the serving wench. "My chambers though, now those floors could do with a good scrubbing."

"Milord," The pretty wench's red lips twisted into a frown, "That would be improper at this hour. I can return in the morning with another maid to complete the task, though."

"You have already angered Jeyne Poole, can you really afford to disappoint another resident of Winterfell so soon?" He queried rhetorically. This girl would lose her maidenhead to him, free of charge. By the month's end Theon reckoned she would likely be a whore in Winter Town working for pennies a cock. Guiding her along he entered his chambers with all the cocky arrogance of a peacock. The Greyjoy heir lit candles while the girl knelt instantly to begin working. Pausing to drink from the jug of wine which had been refilled in his absence the handsome Lord slipped to his bed. With a loud yawn he kicked off his heavy boots. She was watching now, he noticed, too demure to reprimand him for undressing and interested in the male form as well.

Soon enough he only remained in his leather breeches. "Bring me another cup of wine before you leave, please," His voice was honeyed. A girl with a little more experience might have questioned his motives, but this pretty thing did not. Theon was truly fortuitous to have found a flower Jory Cassel and the other guards had not plucked quite yet. Glugging down the cup of wine proffered to him he peered up at that pretty face. Cock straining against his leather breeches he reached upwards to unlace her bodice until both hands were slapped away. "All I want is a peek," He smiled with deceptive kindness, "We can _both_ see each other nude. Then you may leave." A taunting grin preceded his winning remark, "I reckon you have never seen a man's cock before?"

Curious eyes reluctantly allowed him to continue undressing her shaking form. Now nude she continued to tremble as he stood to drop his breeches. Erection now free he grabbed her by that quivering bottom. Hands pressed against him as he rubbed his hands without invitation across the pretty thing's body. He seized violently midway towards his destination, however. "Milord?" The naked serving girl asked worriedly as he collapsed backwards onto the bed. Still, she slipped backwards instead of forwards to his assistance. Reasonably worried that this was only another trick.

"He will be fine," That voice was familiar some moments later, Theon could still hear in his paralysis. "You shall leave us here, alert no one to the events of tonight or my mistress will send you away to whore for Wildlings Beyond-the-Wall." He recognized the Lyseni accent as belonging to Andarra. Theon Greyjoy was now the one to shudder with nervousness as he recalled why exactly he avoided Sansa Stark's beautiful handmaiden. Every time they fucked he found himself soon lost in the darkness. He was a betting man, and Theon now found himself mentally wagering his meager allowance from the Starks that Shiera Seastar was behind it all. "For future reference little serving wench," Andarra spoke in a sarcastic tenor, "Should you wish to keep your maidenhead intact I would advise staying as far from cocks as you can. Curiosity killed the cat after all."

Then the cuckolding ended with a gentle click of his chamber door. "You have been steering clear of me lately." The Lysene woman tsked, "I almost thought my task was nearly completed until I overheard the Manderly girl telling Jonelle Cerwyn of your tryst this afternoon. So naughty of you, when I would have been more than capable of giving you what you needed." The silver-haired courtesan raked her fingers possessively over his naked, paralyzed body. "It takes an evil man to force himself unto a girl like the one I just rescued. She is lucky I was hiding behind the curtains as you molested her. That I had the foresight to poison the wine before you returned."

" _You. Whore."_ Theon gurgled out, hardly able to move his tongue, let alone his jaw.

"I am no whore. You claimed my maidenhead, remember that exquisite evening Lord Greyjoy?" She was taunting him, and he hated feeling so powerless. "Drazenko Rogare did not buy me for a small sum. I was one of the most coveted courtesans this season from amongst any of the pillow houses. Now it is almost time for you to pay the price as well. To purchase me from Sansa Stark and Lady Seastar." A popping noise bounced across the air before a vial was pressed to his lips. The sweet substance trickled with a sickening thickness down his throat. A second vial followed closely after. As movement slowly returned to his body the young Lord was twisted face down onto the bed only to be bound tightly to all four bedposts. "Before you pay the price," She whispered debaucherously in his ear, "There must come a punishment. The Smallfolk were not born for you to spit upon, women were not born for you to force your cock upon." Clapping loudly she signalled for the door to open again.

Standing there was the young beggar whom Theon had knocked over earlier in the day. Bathed and dressed in fine furs. Now able to turn his neck again the Lord watched as Andarra pulled him closer and closer to the bed. Pausing briefly she whispered something in a seductive manner into the brutish-looking peasant's ear. In response he stripped himself of his clothing to reveal a wiry, scarred form. Still confused Theon watched the scene nervously. "In Essos," Andarra purred against his face, "Handsome young men are purchased with nearly as much enthusiasm as comely young women. The virginity of an attractive, arrogant little pirate like yourself would have raked in a small fortune."

"No," He shook his head violently as the beggar prompted the bed to creak beneath the uninvited weight. Naked body writhing violently, muscles bulging against the restraints, sculpted buttocks tensing beneath the candlelight.

Fingers tangling into his locks of wild hair Andarra pulled Theon's head upwards. "You will learn what it feels like to be a victim. Only then can I stand to be with you as Shiera Seastar intends." She snapped her fingers prompting the beggar to move into position.

" _NOOOOO-ooooooo,_ " The Ironborn's wail of despair cut off into a muted whisper as he himself learned what it was like to be sternly taken by a lecher.

OOOO

"They are calling you the Red Rose," Shiera smiled slyly as she slipped elegantly through the Crypts of Winterfell. "In honor of your Aunt Lyanna. There is a myth that the very same day she came into her own all of the blue roses of Winterfell bloomed." Sansa wondered how the woman could look so at ease amongst the treacherous burial tombs. Even she, a Stark, could glean little comfort from being surrounded by her dead ancestors.

"I have not yet bled and already they call me a woman?" Sansa asked in response, somewhat retaliatorily. She tired of being inside of these damp catacombs while her Ladies-in-Waiting for their departure the next morning in warmth.

"Men will believe what they want to believe, it is merely to your advantage to perpetuate it." Shiera allowed her finger to caress the dusty face of a glaring Stark statue as they continued further into the darkness. For what seemed like hours, and probably was too, they stumbled towards the depths. Deeper than Sansa believed her Lord father would ever have allowed either of them to go had he been privy to this excursion. She wondered how far down she was willing to go if Shiera asked. Perhaps through even the collapsed portions? Or maybe even to the Seven Hells?

"My aunt was barely even a woman either when they called her the Blue Rose of Winterfell," The girl stubbornly refused to let the new title get to her head. "She allowed everyone to think of her as such, and Rhaegar abducted her. Do women ever truly gain power through manipulation, or are we merely misled into believing so?"

They came to a stop at this question. "I was imprisoned in these Crypts for nearly a century, Sansa," Shiera responded. She turned to stare between two statues. "My fate stolen from me by two men who had once entrusted so much trust in my talents. Complacency is what truly leads to the downfall of those rare women who can consider themselves powerful. We must _always_ be preparing for even the unforeseen. Learn from my mistakes, remember to trust no one but the woman who pushed you into this world and yourself." A mischievous glimmer flashed through those mismatched eyes, "Give me your hand."

Hesitantly, Sansa placed her pale limb upon Shiera's well-manicured grip. Sweeping forth the buxom, Targaryen beauty pulled her pupil between two statues of Stark ancestors almost as ancient as Winterfell. Peering beneath the torchlight, which Shiera held, Sansa noted something incredibly odd. Within a manse of cobwebs appeared the distinct image of a door. "You are the blood of Brandon the Builder," The Great Bastard stared firmly at her, "Only a true Stark can open the secrets within." A flashy, silver dirk was removed from its hiding spot on Shiera's calve at that announcement.

Tentatively Sansa contemplated the weapon with gingerly movements while her companion waved the torch through the cobwebs. Angry creatures scurried free as a result, both the ones which had lived in the Crypts for millennia and those that had recently been evicted from the First Keep. "Magic is not real, Lady Seastar," Sansa spoke with the frostiness her father had utilized at the execution that very day.

"I stand before you, of flesh and blood," Shiera did not waver, nor did she smile, "Yet I was born a century ago." Those eyes flickered dangerously, their disorderly nature revealing a hellish glint. "Perhaps now you cannot be convinced that sorcery exists, but you should be capable of recognizing that these Crypts are a strange place indeed."

Hissing as she slit her hand, totally unable to argue with Shiera's solid logic, Sansa Stark pressed the bloody palm against the freshly uncovered door. It was carved from bronze. Smattered with various ruins from long forgotten dialects of the old tongue. Rubbing the blood firmly against the foreign etchings she listened as a terrifying noise ensued. Metal screamed against metal from deep within the walls as the bronze door sunk down into the stone beneath it. Stepping nervously inside, with Shiera's go-ahead of course, the girl looked about the dank hidey hole.

Piles of dusty weapons lay in neat stacks one after the other. "Obsidian," Shiera stroked at one of the assortments of weapons contemplatively. They stumbled through the cluttered space until reaching the room's end. No more obsidian rested here, and instead there were various objects scattered about in no particular order. "The crown of King Torrhen Stark," Shiera lifted a circular object with nine spikes from its resting place on a disintegrating, velvet pillow.

"But that was melted down and placed inside of the Iron Throne!" Sansa snatched it from her governess's grip with incredulity shining in those Tully-blue eyes. To think that four-hundred years prior her great-grandfather hid this object from the Targaryens. That she now stood with the last true Targaryen left in Westeros, crown of her proud forefathers in hand, yet still bound beneath the might of another pretender to the Northern throne. Uncertain of the treachery towards House Baratheon which suddenly welled in her mind Sansa moved to set the precious item back down. Very carefully so. The Great Bastard slunk over to something else while the girl felt her foot kick against a round object hidden on the mildly damp floor. Moving quickly she bent to pick up the, surprisingly light, ball of metal. Blowing on the surface revealed that the object was composed of spinning dials set side-by-side with random runes carved all across.

A loud bang interrupted Sansa's observations as she spun around to face her instructor. The woman stood before a now shut trunk with a victorious smile plastered across her face. "Swear to me, Sansa, on your honor as a Stark and Tully that you will not visit this room again until it is necessary, or speak of what you are about to hear." There was an unyielding strength unlike anything Sansa had ever heard in Shiera's voice before. This was the woman who had turned King's Landing into the booming metropolis it was today. Not the seductive, sensual, witty creature that spent her time ceaselessly manipulating behind the scenes. "I have done much for you and your family, child," A ferocious growl rumbled across the air, "Pay me this favour at the very least."

"I swear it, Lady Shiera," She stumbled forth, hoping desperately to see what was hidden in the rather small, crumbling trunk.

"I dreamt long ago," Shiera Seastar stepped in front of the vessel, blocking it from her pupil's gaze, "Of the Bleeding Star. Through tribulation and triumph she shall discover her faith. Sacrifice will become her sword. You must tell her of this room nineteen years from today. Encourage her to embrace its secrets. No matter how terrified she is of the truths within. Relay to this young woman everything I have taught you. Remind her that what hides inside this trunk is her birthright."

Uncertain of what to say to that all, Sansa nodded while hiding the strangled noises of confusion in her dry throat. Forgetting she still clutched the metal ball they slipped from the little room. "There are many others like this," Shiera announced, "Long hidden. Waiting for a Stark to find them. But this one in particular…" Those mismatched eyes glimmered firmly in Sansa's direction, "You must never forget where this one lies."

OOOO

Shiera Seastar did not often glance into her prized mirror. To do so was to risk allowing vengeful spirits into the safety provided her by Winterfell. Though the desire for revenge inflamed her like little else could. Unafraid of any of her pawns visiting with sudden requests for assistance she stripped from her dusty clothing. "Guese haogan lineye rougal," The Great Bastard gasped out. Flashing from the smoky depths of the mirror appeared an image of great tragedy. Lying on a bed was none other than Jojen Reed.

Screaming from the depths of Greywater Watch as the blood of the Marsh Kings boiled with poison. His family cloistered nearby though they were of little import. Incapable of understanding that their son was merely being removed from an invisible war. One which he never should have been involved with in the first place. Soon enough he would lose his ability to dream. To be manipulated by the skeleton Beyond-the-Wall, and turned into a soldier against Shiera's ambitions.

With the flick of her wrist the image flickered away to a chamber close by her own within Winterfell. Reaching forth for her familiar, turquoise poultice Shiera Seastar began to slather it onto her body. "Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell," The naked beauty whispered whilst observing the young man's immediate response. Sending him spiralling into a vortex of erotic dreams for what seemed to be, and likely was, the thousandth time.

OOOO

Next Chapter: The Trojan Horse.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: The Trojan Horse.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

"What if I fucked Sansa Stark," Roger Ryswell smiled lasciviously, "Like her uncle did to Barbrey? Showed old Ned what it feels like to suffer the humiliation of a deflowered maiden." He adjusted the horse head pin which was attached to his thick, rich woolens so that it glared straight forth.

"Sister holds a far stronger position than you presently do, brother," Roose, the third born Ryswell son, spat out in response. "Do you wish to think what her wrath might bring upon your fortunes if I betrayed such a vile remark regarding her honour?" They sat with a seat between them in the Great Hall of their ancestral holding, Stallion's Brook. Patiently awaiting not only the arrival of the final Ryswell brother, but the Stark guests as well. "Besides. You are much too old to ever draw the gaze of a maiden like Sansa Stark. I hear they call her the Red Rose of Winterfell."

"I hear she is as wild as that Lyanna Stark ever was. Pulled a dirk onto Lord Wull only a week or so ago. Even stood alongside her brothers while Alliser Thorne was executed." The lecher grinned, a look which bespoke an arrogant handsomeness that had begun to lose its luster long before. Brown hair which once gleamed like a barrel of chestnuts had begun to recede in the corners. Wrinkles crinkled the corners of his eyes as he turned slightly to peer at Roose. The lad looked quite like he himself once had even though they differed so mightily in temperament. "You have not had a woman, have you little brother?" Roger taunted. "Lasses like that are a struggle to bed, and they know exactly the sway they hold over our heads. Until they encounter an 'older' man. Practiced indifference is where they wind up in trouble. A peek of their breasts to send our hearts racing, a glimpse of their bottoms to make our pricks throb, and then they lift their pretty skir-."

"Enough!" Roose lost his edge in the argument as a flush spread across his pallid face.

Roger merely drank from his mug of mead with a victorious demeanour. The man had always resented the lad for being their Lord father's favourite. Intelligent, little Roose who was always focused on proper matters. So _very_ unlike his whoremongering, drunken, waste of an elder brother. He was not quite so much a lackwit as to not recognize that this was the root of their discord. No, Roger merely did not see much point in bothering to rectify the fraught relationship. He alone could become Lord of Stallion's Brook after his father passed into the beyond. Then Roose would wind up leaving anyways to discover his own fortunes as the second spare. "Would you rather speak of Shiera Seastar then, brother?" The man snickered, "Her cunt will certainly not be quite so tight as sweet Sansa Stark's. Though she doubtlessly possesses the prowess of a dragon in the sheets."

He ignored his annoying brother's outraged response. Remembering the time Ned Stark's sorceress adviser had visited the Rills to inspect the productivity of House Ryswell's mills. She was truly a ferocious creature. So lovely that it left him incapable of speech, yet so intelligent that it had left him feeling eviscerated. Perhaps he could change that dynamic this time around with his father's defiant little ploy. No sooner did that thought cross his mind than the doors to the Great Hall opened. Rickard, the second born, led the very slighted Stark host through the doors to the feast hall. Roger delighted in seeing Robb Stark, much older than when he last visited Winterfell, scowling. In an impetuous reversal of the feudal order his vassal's children were left standing before where he sat in his father's seat.

On either side of the fuming little Stark whelp stood a horse-faced girl, and the famed Shiera Seastar. Both of the Stark children did not bother to hide their displeased frowns at having not only having been greeted by a second son, but for the feast to have commenced without them. The Great Bastard simply smiled a dangerous grin which caused Roger's glee to begin sinking towards his boots. Beside her stood, without any doubt, Lady Sansa who in turn was flanked closely by her Highborn Ladies-in-Waiting. Lovely as they all were, excepting Jonelle Cerwyn, none of the maidens came close to the blossoming beauty of Ned Stark's daughter. "Welcome to Stallion's Brook," Roger extended his arms wide in a tipsy gesture, betraying how much drink he had imbibed. "I trust my brother has already broken bread and salt with our esteemed guests?"

The answer came not from Rickard, but from Robb Stark. "After a third reminder he did, aye." Dark murmurings of assent rumbled from the Stark guards who still stood behind him. All were drenched with the rain after having been left outside for such a long while. Shiera Seastar placed an inappropriate, guiding hand upon her temporary ward's shoulder. Roger wondered if he was the only man to notice how she squeezed the muscle beneath with reassuring tightness, and the heir of Winterfell visibly relaxed in response. "It is merely regrettable that your father was unable to greet us, and fulfill the ceremonial customs himself. Especially after having confirmed through letters with Maester Luwin that he would be in attendance for our arrival." It was a trap, of that much Roger was certain, though he wondered why she was using their obvious show of disobedience as the bait.

"Our father found himself compelled to visit our sister Barbrey in Barrowton. She requires assistance with a household matter. He awaits you there, as you intended to visit our Lady sister as well." Roose piped up predictably, much to Roger's chagrin.

"Odd, given that I was always under the impression that Lady Dustin was a rather ruthless administrator," The Targaryen beauty insinuated coyly. "Does she often struggle with the matter of overseeing the Barrowlands? Perhaps it would be better for one of the Dustin cousins to assist with such matters. For the sake of autonomy at least…"

"Autonomy between the Rills and Barrowlands ended the moment Ned Stark returned North without Willam Dustin's and our uncle's bodies in his procession." Rickard spat this out in response to Lady Shiera's threatening remarks.

Instead of the woman dictating the course of conversation further, however, Sansa Stark stepped forth daringly. "You are named for my grandfather, Lord Rickard. Do you forget his death, the deaths of my uncle and aunt as well? Willam Dustin and Mark Ryswell fought to avenge the unjust executions of their liege and his family. I doubt that such honorable men would wish for their memories to be used as the justification of a rebellion."

"Rebellion?" Roger scoffed with a dismissive chuckle following close after. He knowingly stared for far longer than was proper at Sansa Stark's silk-clad form. "Did Lord Stark send you all simply because we refuse to build _his_ roads with our own coffers? You question matters of autonomy, yet we must comply to every whim which seeps from the walls of Winterfell?" Lady Seastar had arrived to Stallion's Brook with a pack of pups. Woefully, humiliatingly unprepared children.

"We recognize, as my sister said," Robb Stark spoke loudly over the sounds of the Ryswell household whispering behind him as they all feasted, "That Ser Mark's sacrifice in Robert's Rebellion might not have been sufficiently rewarded. Which is one of the true purposes of our visit to the Rills. Such bold and loyal vassals as the Ryswells deserve far more recognition." He paused, by the mild crick in his pale throat it was clear that the Stark heir wished to glance back at Lady Shiera. Though he did not as it would have weakened the strength of his words significantly. "Lord Stark has sent us to honor the Lords Rickard and Roose with becoming the first of a new class. Esteemed members of the Order of the North."

Roger realized too late that he had lost. Rickard and Roose were the sort that would slit his throat in sleep for a chance to gain some prominence. "You will be tasked with travelling all corners of the North. Finding promising warriors from both the Nobility and Smallfolk. Recruiting them, training them to fight just as well as any Southron Knights," Robb Stark continued, "And assisting the Night's Watch whenever needed."

"You will uphold the will of our Northern Gods," Sansa Stark slipped easily into the fray again, confidence brimming from those Tully-blue eyes. "Ensure that the laws of our ancestors and Robert Baratheon are executed. My Lord father has also bequeathed Moat Cailin to the Order of the North. Your ranks will return it to its former glory." A sweet smile paired with fluttering eyelashes caused half the room's men to swoon. "In turn House Stark will settle the finest, most distinguished of your Order upon the lands of the Gift. After winter has passed, of course."

At that, Rickard knelt before the Starks while Roose stood only to contort into an awkward bow. His father's ploy was officially a failure, for in his absence the Starks managed to drive a wedge into the unity of their family. "You both will leave for White Harbor on the morrow," Shiera Seastar stared gloatingly upwards at him instead of his overly ambitious brothers. "There Lord Manderly's knights are to assist you in laying the foundations of this honourable Order."

"I find myself obliged to wonder where this most honourable Order of the Weirwood will secure its funding," Roger finally overcame his shock enough to swipe at the profound declaration.

"There is much wealth to be found Beyond-the-Wall, Lord Roger," Lady Shiera smiled wickedly upwards at him. Her flatteringly, well-fitted gown of silver cloth tightening as she swept forth slightly. "Such will serve as incentivization for the Order to assist the Night's Watch as often as possible in their raids against the Wildlings. In the meantime House Stark will provide what is necessary for this vital organization to grow. While your brothers shall be tasked with recruitment, Ser Marlon Manderly shall be entrusted with training new members. Wendel Manderly is to act as treasurer. In half-a-year's time you four, and any newly appointed commanders, shall elect a General of the North's Cavalry."

What she failed to announce was that neither of the Ryswell recruits would ever likely become 'General of the North's Cavalry'. Roger wished he could voice this thought just to watch the fool's faces fall, though could not think of an artful way to phrase it. Instead he opened both arms wide, "On my father's behalf you have the deepest gratitude of House Ryswell. Please join us in the bounteous feast." Eyes smoldering he turned from the approaching Starks to glare at his brother. "Leave with Rickard this evening for White Harbor. Pack now during the feast, and depart once our guests have left." Withholding his choicier words the man looked up in time to catch the triumphant gazes of the Starks as they milled into their seats.

Any tension slowly eased away as the Stark retinue joined with the Ryswell household in all of the festivities. Reluctantly he conversed with false enthusiasm to Robb Stark who sat beside him, steadfastly ignoring Shiera Seastar's gloating aura. Roger truly doubted that either his father, or his clever sister would be able to handle the force headed their way. They would underestimate the Stark children much like he himself had. Dismiss them as stupid, unskilled tykes when they were intelligent enough to listen to their mistress. Bitterly he allowed himself to slink into mild drunkenness only after Shiera Seastar and Sansa Stark slunk from the feast.

Late in the morning Roger found himself stumbling through the keep when he happened upon something quite strange. Clad only in a white shift was the Red Rose of Winterfell. Standing in front of the doors to his chambers she had caught the full radiance of the moonlight now that most of the torches had died down. Hair as redder than weirwood sap, fiery as blood on the battlefield pooled down to her willowy waist. The form-fitting silk cast an almost ethereal virginiality innocence to her features. "Lord Ryswell," She smiled, and his body _ached_ at a mere glance. "I, foolishly, wandered through Stallion's Brook without a chaperone. Now I am hopelessly lost. Might I ask you for your assistance?"

He stepped forth slowly. Mind addled by the drink Roger was ashamed to admit that he took the desirable situation for granted. That mistake would cost him sorely. In a sweeping movement Sansa Stark bent to lift the hem of her white shift. Only a moment later she lashed outwards with a knife in hand. So startled was Roger Ryswell that he stumbled backwards into a wall. Able to do little more than gasp while clutching at the bleeding wound on his shoulder blade. "Do not dare to curse me. Simply listen while I explain the new dynamic between Houses Stark and Ryswell." She spoke in a callous tone now, boldly reaching forth to wipe the blade upon his tunic. "In the morning you will profess to Lady Jonelle how enamoured with her you have become. The poor woman, so starved for affection, will be thrilled. That is when you shall whisk her away to the Godswood for a secret wedding."

"I will do no such thing," The Ryswell heir hissed, "My father would disown me. The woman is uglier than a poxed cock. Older than any bride ought to be."

"Your father will be pleased with your decision to finally produce heirs. He will be overjoyed to have advanced his influence even closer to Winterfell's walls," Sansa Stark paused thoughtfully, "Accordingly, he will be very displeased that you attempted to rape me."

"I did no such-." Roger realized then that he was clutching at a wound which would prove otherwise. Robb Stark would have him beheaded before the morn began if he did not comply with the girl's whims.

"Yes," Her smile was beautiful, adeptly obscuring the wickedness beneath, "You will send a letter to Medger Cerwyn promptly after Lady Cerwyn has, _finally_ , been deflowered. He will be overjoyed at having finally managed to accomplish what he once thought impossible." She turned into the darkness only to pause with a meaningful glance shot over the shoulder. "I need not add that you will treat Lady Jonelle _very_ well. She is not to be abused, or turned into a cowering mouse. I expect her to be in excellent condition when you next visit Winterfell."

Roger sagged to the floor while wondering how he had been bested by a such wisp of a girl.

OOOO

"I am nervous," Robb admitted aloud as their destination rose before the Stark party. Sixty guards led by Jory Cassel surrounded them all in a loose flank. Beside him rode Shiera Seastar from atop a lovely, white stallion. Her hair glimmered like pale fire in the sunlight of the Barrowlands, sumptuous figure ramrod straight despite the constant movements of the horse beneath. "Roger Ryswell was difficult enough for me to handle. Even with all of those lines you had me memorize." He froze with a white face, "How am I supposed to handle _both_ Barbrey Dustin and Rodrick Ryswell at the same time?"

Up ahead Sansa rode with Arya, reaching out with one hand to fuss with the girl's windswept locks of brown. He envied his sister's adept political ability. Almost overnight it seemed as though she had turned from a silly child to a master manipulator worthy of Lady Seastar's attentions. The young man's attention was shocked back to the woman beside him when she spoke. "You envy your sister. I can read it plainly on your face, as can she." The Stark heir respected her intelligence enough to not bother denying it. "Though you must learn to appreciate her. She is every bit as much a Stark as you are. Where you are weak, she is strong. Where she is strong, you are weak. Work in tandem against the rambunctious Lords we are set to face. That is how you shall succeed, Robb Stark."

He watched when she rode ahead after having finished speaking. The radiant beauty slowed upon arriving beside Syggi Magnar. Apparently the Magnars owned one of the last herds of unicorns on Skagos. Using this fact in conjunction with Winterfell's new alliance with Skagos the Great Bastard had been plotting ferociously to revitalize the declining species so they populated the entire North. Focusing away from the ambitious woman's antics Robb observed the ancient stone wall built amidst the Barrowland hills. It was not quite high enough to block sight of Dustin Hall, or Goldgrass, yet the town within was completely obscured from view.

Upon riding through the gates Robb observed how Barrowton thrived like nothing he had ever seen before. Movement could be seen wherever the eye peeked, bustling between the older timber structures, and relatively new ones crafted from stone. Impressed by the sheer life to be seen in Barrowton Robb found himself peering upwards. Dustin Castle rose high overhead with a cold presence, as though it was only crafted for survival. Across from it towered the keep of Goldgrass. House Stout, built by a petty Stark son who found favour with some long-forgotten Dustin Lord, occupied the boxed fortress. The devil appeared at Robb's thoughts. "We are honoured to host the Starks within our town!" Lord Harwood Stout crowed from beside his son Ronnel.

What followed was the breaking of bread and salt. Soon afterwards most of their party were escorted within the Castle to face an immeasureable threat. Breathing deeply Robb allowed himself to be led like a horse. Many floors passed them by, and most of their household diminished except for Jory Cassel who remained to guard them. He was stationed outside of the solar, as they entered. Lady Barbrey, a very handsome woman, sat in a large chair behind a suitably large desk. Her father stood with crossed arms before a tall window. Robb had expected some sort of feast to preced discussions though he forgot that these Nobles did not care if the Starks were slighted. "Welcome to Barrowton, my Lords and Ladies," Barbrey was colder than frost as she stood gracefully. Sweeping into a flawless curtsey. Sansa, Arya, Lady Shiera did the same while Robb stood ramrod straight instead of nodding. Refusing to display courtesy for the most discourteous aristocrats he had ever encountered.

"I recieved a raven," Lord Ryswell spoke in a harsh, unfriendly tone, "From my heir this morning. That not only were my other sons drawn into the new Order of the North, but that he wedded Lady Jonelle Cerwyn."

"She is the Lady of Ryswell now, my Lord," Sansa corrected sharply, "And your son is quite lucky to have won the heart of such an effective conductor of household affairs. She served as Lady of Cerwyn Castle for many years after all."

"Many years indeed," Rodrick Ryswell sniffed indignantly. Behind Sansa's back Lady Wylla had visibly stiffened at the slights being pressed upon her friend. Robb wondered that the man could even control his rage at all after the chaos wreaked by Lady Shiera and his sister at Stallion's Brook. Two of his sons now having the means to be free of his control after having, presumably, been loyal for many years. An heir wedded to a Stark loyalist who was possibly too old to even bear children.

"Unfortunately," Robb forced himself to speak up, "We have not come here today to speak of good tidings. There is business to be overseen." Beside him Arya listened intently as the Great Bastard had instructed her to.

"Yes, Lord Stark," Babrey Dustin roved him over with her eyes as though about to eat a feast, "There is the matter of your Lord father's roads to be dealt with. Neither myself, nor my father, will be able to construct such behemoths. There is simply no need for it."

"My grandfather, the Lord of White Harbor," Wylla stepped forth, green hair shining prettily, "Has already spoken of increased profits. With only a road to Oldcastle completed our coffers have benefited greatly." She slunk backwards after the surprising display of political canniness.

Clearly pleased with the development Sansa spoke, "It is your responsibility as the overseer of these lands to welcome new opportunities, Lady Dustin. Especially one that has the potential to help your smallfolk survive the coming winter. How many greybeards will be spared an unthinkable sacrifice this season? How many mothers shall be protected from having to bury their babes?"

"My sister is correct," Robb pounced instantly, remembering Lady Shiera's instructions, "Winter is coming. For millenia our people have barely survived much less been able to focus on growing, or even thriving. This is an opportunity to connect our lands. To break the chains of isolation which have kept us sepparate from one another. Lend your strength to this task, and we all can fight for survival together. With a steady supply of trade to keep our bellies full."

"The flaw in your argument," Lady Dustin folded her fingers together rather haughtily, "Is that my smallfolk have never struggled to survive. We take care of our own well enough, but you would have us dedicate our resources to support other Houses that cannot fend for themselves?"

Robb struggled in that moment is stunned silence surrounded the room at her blatant greed. He wondered how his ancestors had ever dealt with the defiance of the Ryswells. In that moment of shock something bubbled from the depths of his brain to the tip of his tongue. A memory of Shiera teaching him of motivations. "As long as I have lived," He spoke with enough steel to hack away at her icy demeanor, "My father has denied House Dustin a charter. The rulers of Barrowton have long resented the opulence of White Harbor. Though given your resistance today to helping the rest of the North in surviving the next winter I find it unsurprising that my ancestors were not inclined to impart such a reward."

"That is too great a prize though, brother," Sansa smiled brightly at his clever wit, "For only a few mere roads in exchange. If our father were to be convinced to grant such a charter it would require sacrifice. A sign of goodwill."

"How much goodwill?" Barbrey Dustin did not bother to hide her interest in this proposition.

"Your heir, the son of Willam Dustin's deceased cousin will be sent to Winterfell as a squire for Ser Rodrick Cassel. The eldest daughter will serve as the first Lady-in-Waiting to Lady Arya, who in turn will one day soon determine who the girl shall wed." To her credit, the youngest Stark daughter did not betray any surprise at Shiera Seastar's words. "The proposed roads will be constructed from the coffers of Houses Ryswell and Dustin with no financial assistance from Winterfell. I expect them to be completed no later than six months from this day." A thoughtful pause, "Given your close proximity to the confluence of the Crown River I expect that a city not unlike Lannisport shall develop around Barrowton. A steward of Eddard Stark's choosing shall preside over administration of the port itself, while taxes will be paid to House Dustin. A proper bride from Barrowton shall be chosen after his tenure is announced. Obviously, your taxes will rise as well."

"I shall have my Maester draft an agreement," Lady Dustin stared at them. "My father shall certainly agree in exchange for such an impressive opportunity."

"Actually," Sansa interjected, "I have one further request to make of you, Lady Dustin." She slipped forth, auburn hair burning, Tully-blue eyes blazing dangerously. "Lady Shiera and myself have decided that since there will be an Order of the North, there should also be an Order of the Weirwood. They will work in tandem on many common goals, though they shall be two sepparate faces of the same coin. Whomever is elected as the Master of Ships for the Order of the North shall be in charge of selecting the commander of the Order of the Weirwood."

"The purpose of this other Order?" She practically spat out at the Stark girl.

"To ferry the cavalry Beyond-the-Wall. You will, upon having the profits necessary, construct a fleet of warships with the assistance of Wyman Manderly's new shipwrights. Using your port the two orders shall have proper footing for western raids against the Wildlings. Until enough spoils have been seized from the Wildings to provide adequate funding you will be responsible for funding the western sect of the Weirwood Order."

A deep pause followed this declaration. "You are as clever as your grandfather was, girl," Rodrick Ryswell spoke in a grudingly admiring tone. "I will assist my daughter in funding the Order of the Weirwood, so that the port may be built. While we draft the contract with Lady Shiera you all should enjoy the feast that has been prepared in the Great Hall. Only the finest for the children of our liege has been provided." Robb was almost surprised by his mild change in attitude, though charters for lucrative ports tended to do that. He started to levea the room only to notice how Shiera Seastar pulled Wylla Manderly close. Whispering something in her ear whilst pressing tightly bound scrolls of parchment into her hands.

He felt the curiosity gnaw at him throughout the entire feast. So consumed by Lady Seastar's secrets that he barely even remembered the name of the eldest two Dustin cousins. Little Artos Dustin chittered excitedly about how he was set to become a knight, while his twelve year old sister, Jocelyn, was visibly enamoured with Arya's fine silk gown. When the dancing began Robb saw an opportunity to extract the answers he needed so desperately. It was as though having succesfully won over Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell awoke his ambitions. A deeply hidden, largely unexplored, thirst for secrets. With Lady Wylla in his arms, blushing red from shameless flirtations, he pulled Shiera's words to the air.

 ****

 **"She wishes for me to travel to White Harbor tomorrow to give one of these letters to my grandfather. As for the others I am uncertain of their contents." A perfect curtsey was given to him. "Fear not my Lord Robb. I will certainly intercept the party before you have reached the Riverlands though." With that she fled away for an early night's rest.**

Leaving the heir of House Stark to wonder whether he would ever be capable of piercing the Targaryen Princess's veil of secrecy.

OOOO

There will be a time jump soon after the next few updates, so don't become discombobulated in the future. As I said, the characters will all be older though it should not change much for the younger children. Arya on up, however, will deal with much more mature matters.

Next Chapter: The She-Wolves of Winterfell.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: The She-Wolves of Winterfell.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

Much had passed the party of travellers by between Barrowton and Riverrun. At Moat Cailin they paused to examine the beginnings of something grand. Engineers were already beginning the motions of preparing to repair the historical fortress. A small army of Manderly Knights and Ryswell soldiers had coalesced as one. Just slightly beyond, as far south as any Stark had gone in years, they struggled through the swamps where guarded thickets were being cleared away to make a road. Greywater Watch exposed the uplifted spirits of House Reed where the young Jojen had recovered from his unwellness. The pretty Lady Meera was invited to join Arya's blossoming court. Sansa could tell how pleased her sister was to have such a skilled warrioress to practice with. Jojen Reed was to travel North to Moat Cailin where Shiera promised he would become a squire to Marlon Manderly. Why Shiera was inspired to curry their favour, Sansa did not know, though it certainly was not born of compassionate generosity.

They all were forced to stop at the Twins for one very uncomfortable evening. Walder Frey had groped his much younger wife Annara Farring incessantly while making not-so-subtly mocking comments about the Tullys, Starks, and Arryns. Particularly regarding how they all refused to wed into his bloodline. As though that were not repugnant enough he set his many daughters upon Robb while Sansa herself was forced to dance through a tidal wave of discourteous, forward flirtations from weasel-faced Freys. Truly the most uncomfortable moment had been when Black Walder Frey, clearly smitten with the Targaryen's beauty, publically proposed to Shiera as they were leaving. 'There is no reason to feel embarrassed,' The Targaryen princess spoke wisely to the Starks as they rode away, 'The Freys presented you three with a very important lesson. Rule weakly as Lord Tully has done, allow vassals to run amok as we just witnessed, and prepare yourselves for the consequences."

Still, she assured them, they would be staying at Seagard on the way back to Winterfell instead. At Raventree Hall they received news that Lady Shella Whent, the last heir of Harrenhal apparently, had died from some sort of sickness. Between the gory details which involved talk of bloodied eyeballs, Shiera whispered to her that it would be a prominent issue in the discussions at Riverrun. Before they left the Blackwoods, Lord Tytos sent his sons North like Howland Reed so that they could join an Order based upon the the Old Faith of the Forest.

None of these grand, Southron castles prepared Sansa for the first glimpse of her mother's ancestral home. Banners spread out all across Riverrun though not for war. No, instead it was to show that every Lord of the slightest prestige, influence, and rank had journeyed to the Tully seat for this grand conference. The Royces, Waynwoods, Belmonts, Redforts, Templetons, Mootons, Pipers, Vances, Darrys, Freys, and even a few Crownlands Houses were all present. With them came merchants, performers, artisans, and whores. What captured Sansa's gaze were the tallest banners that swayed, however. Tully's trout, Arryn's falcon, and the Stark's direwolf swayed alongside the Lion of House Lannister. Above them all the crowned stag of the royal family billowed from the battlements of Riverrun.

"Why is the King here? The Rogares only intended to deal with the North, Vale, and Riverlands, I thought?" Arya asked while her new handmaidens whispered nervously to one another.

"Wrong questions sister," Sansa clutched so tightly at her reins that both hands where whiter than snow. "Why are the Lannisters here, and why have they towed the figurehead of their power along too? What statement are they trying to make?"

Arya scrunched her nose in response while thinking of a reply. "Well, this meeting is about increasing opportunities for our relatives. Do they wish to prevent our grandfather and uncle from taking loans with the Rogares?"

"They could care less about the loans," Shiera interjected Sansa's lesson sharply, taking charge of Arya's education. The auburn-haired beauty twisted to stare back at her tutor. For the first time since she had met her, Lady Seastar seemed uncertain. Though not regarding the intentions of the royal family. "Tywin Lannister is clearly intent on checking the increased power that would come from implementations of such large sums. We shall soon learn who has a greater influence over the court. The King's Hand, or his Queen's family."

That was far from inspiring. Still they rode onwards towards a now uncertain destiny. They arrived into the castle's large courtyard to find a respectable, yet far from proper, welcoming party. Standing at the entrance to Riverrun's keep were two old men, a younger man who looked quite like her mother, and Drazenko Rogare. Feeling the wind escape her lungs at the sight of her handsome admirer she nervously twitched the wrist which proudly wore his token. Beside him was a beautiful woman with exquisite Valyrian colouring. They approached slowly, her, Robb, and Arya, while Shiera marched forth with graceful exuberance. The Great Bastard curtseyed daintily before, who Sansa presumed to be, Jon Arryn. "Lord Hand, it is an honour for you to have accepted our offer to partake in terms of join economic stimulation between these three great kingdoms," The woman articulated herself splendidly well as always.

The man possessed an aquiline nose and a friendly smile. "Thank you for convincing me to engage Master Rogare's services. I look forward to seeking the wisdom of such a clearly talented mind as yours, Lady Seastar." He was lacking some of his teeth, but Jon Arryn seemed to make up for it with thrice the cleverness. Only a special sort of man could look beyond a woman's tits towards her mettle for economic inspiration.

"Lord Tully," The Great Bastard turned to their host, "I take great pleasure in introducing you to your grandchildren."

Just like that it seemed to be their time to shine. Sansa swept forth as regally as possible while Arya followed the ministrations in her own charming manner. Robb paused courteously only to blink in surprise when the rickety-looking man hobbled his way down the steps towards them with surprising agility. He pulled the heir of Winterfell in for a tight embrace first, then Sansa, and finally bent to kiss Arya on her inflamed cheeks. "You are a near-replica of your mother," He paused with a twinkle in his Tully-blue eyes, "Though much prettier. A great, Riverland beauty!" Despite having tried for so long to become a Stark the Northern bannermen could respect Sansa slipped back into the role of a courtly, Southron maiden easily enough.

"Thank you my Lord," She smiled winningly, "Yet I fear that I am a Northern beauty if anything."

He chuckled, "Clever I bet. Just as clever as your mother hopefully." The man turned to gaze at the young man standing behind him. "Greet your nephew and nieces already Edmure! For the sake of the Seven, give them a tour of the seat of their ancestors." With that they were pressed into the company of their Uncle Edmure. He was not unintelligent, nor was the man unkind. Simply put it meant that they were forced to withstand the inescapable presence of Johanna Rogare. She flirted profusely with the Tully heir whilst following him about the tour. Sansa could already tell what the girl's ploy was, and wondered when the Rogares had gone from courting Kings to Lords. The match had firm legs to stand upon if Sansa were being honest. Even if the Lannisters managed to remove Jon Arryn from the loan negotiations they could not forbid the Tullys from doing business with their heir's goodbrother. Nevertheless they would certainly object to Sansa's ambitions for her grandfather's lands.

She found herself sharing a spacious room with her sister that had allegedly once belonged to their mother. Instead of talking with the girl, or any of the Ladies-in-Waiting who flitted about busily Sansa sat at the desk. Reading over her many personal papers full of detailed plans for the Riverlands.

OOOO

Arya found herself in a very uncomfortable situation. She was certainly nowhere near prepared to match wits with Kings, nor the likes of Tywin Lannister. Still, the girl would have preferred taking such a risk if it meant being able to do anything other than stand silently. 'You must learn,' Shiera often said during their lessons on sums and courtesies, 'Before I trust you to speak freely.' Silence was her greatest weakness though. Seated at the spot of honor above the Starks was King Robert. He bore a thunderous facial expression, many stones worth of weight, and a wild beard. Beside him the Queen looked every bit the golden beauty of Lannister that they spoke of, yet there was something cold to her features. In varying degrees of prominence there was Arya's Lord grandfather, uncle, Jon Arryn, as well as the Rogares.

"Your grace," Shiera spoke after curtseying deeply, "I present to you the children of Lord Stark of W-."

"You can't divert my gaze that easily," Robert Baratheon bellowed with a suddenly red face, "No, I only have eyes for you, you Targaryen whore." The man stood revealing just how fat he actually was. Arya recalled learning of Aegon the Unworthy. She could not help but realize with a sinking dread that her father's old friend was nothing more than a corrupt pudge of flesh. "I have wondered why Ned would shelter one of the bastards who killed her. Who _murdered_ my sweet Lyanna." A hungry, hateful expression flashed through his piggy eyes, "Show us the body that bewitched him to such foolishness." He turned to one of the Kingsguard, "STRIP HER TRANT. YOU PATHETIC WHORESON!"

"Robert!" Jon Arryn had stood long ago, now he spoke in protest, "This woman had nothing to do with the Rebellion. Ned is a man of his word! He has proven to us all countless times that Lady Seastar was found in the Crypts of Winterfell! That she is exactly who she says she is."

"Then she should be burnt alive," The Queen interjected suddenly, "For performing the darkest of sorcery."

Still, while they argued Meryn Trant ambled forth towards Shiera. Robb pulled his blade free whilst stepping in front of the Great Bastard. "Stand aside, boy," The lecherous bastard called out, drawing his own steel. The Stark guards stood defiantly with their weapons brandished alongside the Tully garrison. Sansa slipped backwards to herd the panicking group of Ladies-in-Waiting like a proper Lady would. At the high table Lord Arryn was shouting at the King while her Tully relatives argued with a bald man who had golden whiskers. Tywin Lannister, she noted absentmindedly in the heat of the moment. In a shocking display of excellent swordsmanship Robb managed to disarm his opponent prior to knocking him over.

A handsome, golden-haired knight who must have been the Kingslayer slipped forth in response to the development. "STOP THIS MADNESS, you stupid sheep fuckers!" She caught every eye in the room much to her embarrassment. Though Arya knew she needed to intervene. There was simply no way her brother was capable of stopping such a great swordsman. The Lannisters could _not_ be allowed to spoil such a splendid opportunity for her relatives with bloodshed. "We are the children of Lord Eddard Stark, the grandchildren of Lord Hoster Tully, and the nieces and nephews of Lord Arryn. Lady Shiera broke bread and salt before entering these walls. She claims the protection of Winterfell. Of House Stark." Grey eyes clashed with Tywin Lannister's cunning green. The Old Lion was the truest threat to their family, not the fat man they all called King. "To harm her you will need to harm us all in turn. Then you must be prepared to face the wrath of the North."

"The North?!" The Queen sneered with a mocking chortle. "Your father's frozen waste poses no threat to my Kingly husband. He will exact justice upon this scheming sorceress while the Kingsguard escort you away."

"Speak not to my kin in such a manner!" Edmure stood while Johanna Rogare who sat beside him whispered with her brother.

"Sit you fool," Hoster chastised the impetuous man back down, only to rise himself. Tully-blue eyes glared at the King. "All of Riverrun's might shall be brought against King's Landing should any blood be shed beneath these walls. So long as Lady Shiera goes no further than the Riverlands she will remain underneath my stalwart protection."

"I cannot condone such an injustice, your grace," Jon Arryn called out. "I will resign from my post, and follow my goodfather in seeking retribution should Lady Shiera be harmed in any way."

Silence ensued as everyone stood stock still. The King glared with a purple face at the beautiful Great Bastard. "Perhaps we can all agree that the threat posed by Lady Seastar would be neutralized," Tywin Lannister spoke manipulatively, "By marrying her to a less threatening spouse. A Plumm, perhaps? Maybe a Frey?"

"Need I remind you, your grace," Shiera Seastar stepped forth with all of her typically majestic glamour, "That all of my holdings have been returned to me by the Free City of Lys. I am not merely a Targaryen, but a woman of great influence across the Narrow Sea. If you attempt to tarnish my prospects in any way I shall bring the wrath of the Lysene upon Westeros. As will the Rogares." In a graceful movement she bent to both knees, lace gown tightening sumptuously across her erotic body. "There is no desire in my heart for such a disastrous war, however. I wish to prosper beneath your peaceful reign, my King. Thusly, I offer my fealty to you, so long as I am given all of the protection the Crowned Stag has to offer any other vassal."

She clasped both hands looking quite like an unearthly creature. Arya imagined that the ordering of the Targaryen Princess's execution would make her into a saint. "I have no choice, do I?" Robert Baratheon snarled down at her, "Unless I wish to butcher half of my Seven Kingdoms." He slammed a fist on the table. "You two," He pointed at Lord Arryn and Lord Tully, "Will be responsible if there is a 'Seastar' Rebellion of any sorts. Relay that message to your father as well, Starks."

Needless to say, none of the Stark delegates felt welcome enough to feast within the hall after such a lackluster reception.

OOOO

Officially, the King was too strained from the stress of having seen a Targaryen, alive, to attend the meeting. Unofficially, Sansa heard from Wylla Manderly that the pathetic bag of flabs had been heard copulating loudly within his chambers. The Queen was gone back to King's Landing for her children, reportedly unhappy that her husband refused to renege on Shiera Targaryen's sudden vassalship. With the woman had gone half the Kingsguard including Jaime Lannister. Now all that remained were Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister. The latter a largely mysterious threat to Sansa's deep inexperience. He would be dead-set against any of his neighboring kingdoms securing anymore influence beyond the Handship.

So it was perhaps no surprise to all who greeted her within a smaller feast room of Riverrun that she had dressed to impress. Sansa had learned much of womanly weapons from Shiera in their time together. Of course, that was not say she complied like a willow to the teachings. No, the girl need to be defiantly self-structured for an affair such as this one. She wore a provocatively cut Myrish cloth-of-gold, which Shiera often called tasteless, gown while the expensive necklace of black opals gifted to her by Drazenko Rogare covered any excess cleavage. Jeyne had spent half of the night twisting Sansa's long locks of auburn hair into a magnificent braid of large curls. Perfumed heavily, and swaying against her hips.

"My Lords. I apologize for the delay," She sunk into a deep curtsey towards all of the room's occupants, having purposefully arrived slightly late. Behind her flounced Wylla and Syggi in their finest, as Jeyne was preoccupied with a well-deserved rest. "You are dismissed," Sansa motioned delicately towards the cupbearer. The Ladies-in-Waiting took up the task instead with a remarkable degree of courtly elegance. Tully-blue eyes peered forth at her allies and adversaries who both filled a massive, circular table. The Tullys sat together with red faces, as though they were too angry to have even noticed her countenance. Arya who dressed proudly in Stark colours was sandwiched between Robb and Shiera with a Northern-style braid.

Sansa recalled how her sister had captured order in the Great Hall the previous evening. Shiera had pulled her aside to explain that it marked the successful passing of a first test. The eldest Stark daughter recalled having passed it herself, reprimanding Lord Glover in the most articulate of terms for insulting Lady Seastar. She wondered what her sister would contribute to the discussions now that she was allowed to speak in political matters rather than simply observe. Next to Robb was Jon Arryn who found himself in turn flanked closely by the Rogare siblings. Across from them all sat three important people that Sansa was still to meet personally, as well as one she was not familiar with at all. "Another child, Lady Seastar?" Tywin Lannister asked dismissively.

"Lady Sansa is no child," Jon Arryn addressed her in a warm tone, "She wrote me strongly convincing correspondences on the behalf of Master Rogare. This intelligent young Lady is nothing to scoff at Lord Lannister."

Interrupting them was a short man dressed only slightly less impeccably than herself. He stood to his laughably small height to grasp at Sansa's willowy wrist. "Lady Sansa. My name is Petyr Baelish." Those eyes made her uncomfortable, "You look ever so much like your mother." The man pressed his slimy lips to the back of her hand whilst the Tully men loosed their brimming rage.

"Do not _dare_ to touch my niece," Ser Edmure bellowed with a red face, standing to both feet. He almost raised his sword in the air though Johanna Rogare stood to her own feet. The woman reached her fingers up so they could curl into his auburn locks. While Sansa distrusted the influence the young woman exerted over the Tully heir she could at least acknowledge that Edmure would gain much from her feminine wisdom. Edmure was no fool, and indeed quite chivalrous, though he remained irresponsible without a family to tether his better judgement in place. Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, removed his hand as slowly as possible from her own.

Fighting shivers she smiled sweetly at him, "Lord Baelish. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I apologize but I wish not to distract from these important discussions any longer." Relishing temporary freedom from his gaze she swept elegantly towards the open seat by her grandfather. Using gentle fingers she assisted the elderly man into his seat prior to giving him a kiss on the cheek. " _Trust. Me_." The beautiful young Lady whispered to him, hoping desperately that he would follow suit.

The Lord of Riverrun sat back with obvious reluctance as the talks began to commence again. Clearly, the Tullys did not like Lord Baelish, yet Lord Baelish had spoken almost reverently of her mother. The Lady of Winterfell had never mentioned the odious man, however, which showed he was far from her graces as well. No matter the reason behind it all Sansa cleverly decided that she would use his clear attraction for her as a weapon. No low-born, no-name such as himself arrived at the post of Master of Coin by lucky simple-mindedness. No, Tywin Lannister would rely heavily upon Lord Baelish's support, but Sansa would charm his tongue into knots.

"As I said, before the interruptions," Tywin stared imperiously at her and the Tullys, "Dealings with the Rogares poses a significant risk to the stability of Westeros. The crown possesses a healthy relationship with the Iron Bank. They will not take kindly to three of our kingdoms siding with these upstart penny-lenders."

"As _I_ was articulating, prior to the interruptions, Lord Lannister," Johanna Rogare shocked them all by speaking against the former Hand, "We deal in far larger amounts than pennies. That is why the Iron Bank has, and always will be, so set upon seeing our demise."

"I refuse to speak of economic affairs with women," Grand Maester Pycelle howled between a yawn.

"Excellent," Shiera piped in at the moment with a deliciously wicked grin, "I refuse to deal with infirm, senile old fools." The man stuttered while she stared Tywin Lannister down with mirthful eyes. Solid emeralds were subjected to the heat of her fiery, mismatched eyes. "Just because Casterly Rock and King's Landing are able to withstand the Iron Bank's egregiously exploitative interest rates does not mean the rest of Westeros can. Frankly, after the terms they offered me prior to my negotiations with the Rogares, it is dumbfounding that the Crown is not already in a shocking quantity of debt. Especially with the talk of the opulent spending in King's Landing that creeps North."

"House Lannister has supported the Crown for many years, Lady Seastar," Lord Baelish supplied, "In exchange for such generosity I have managed the realm's taxes according to their enviable standards."

"The rest of the realm, Lord Baelish," Robb countered fiercely, "Does not have Casterly Rock to sit upon when winter comes. Our taxes should have been reinvested into profitable ventures. Into ensuring the survival of the Smallfolk all across Westeros. If only House Lannister's dragons are being taken into account then why is my father paying taxes?"

"While I am disappointed to hear Lord Baelish insinuate that the Crown favours any of its vassals, he is not incorrect," The Hand interrupted. "Under his tenure the treasury has tripled its revenue." A displeased furrow wrinkled his brow, "I must say that the revenue is spent rapidly which is the reason Lord Baelish negotiated several loan contracts with the Iron Bank."

"All here understand, Lord Hand," Sansa cut through the competitive like a knife across butter, "That you were attempting to diminish Lord Lannister's influence over the Iron Throne. There is no need to mince words, especially during business negotiations." None interrupted her candor, for they were either abhorred by such discourtesy, or smug with it as Shiera was. "Now we find ourselves sitting here facing Lord Lannister," She inclined her perfumed head towards the coldly-demeanored man, "As he attempts to prevent us from any possible measures which may increase the taxes we pay the King. Lord Baelish has already stated that such a drastic change in fortunes would yield our Houses far more influence." The girl stared boldly at the man prior to reaching over, patting his hand sensually though it made her shiver. "No one blames you, my Lord. No, you did as well as you could."

She smiled while slipping away from the contact prior to glancing at Drazenko Rogare. Instead of looking disgusted with her blatant seductions he seemed more intrigued than anything. "Now that I have set a standard for candor, I wish to hear what Master Rogare's terms are."

"Lord Arryn and I have already agreed that he will be borrowing two-hundred-seventy thousand dragons at an interest rate of twenty-five percent for the first three years of repayments. Including the support of my bank in supplying his bank with skilled, eastern immigrants. That will increase to thirty percent interest afterwards and remain constant until all installments have been gathered. Of course, that is subject to change if House Arryn fails in any way to honor these terms." The contract in question was pushed towards Tywin Lannister who barely glanced at it.

"A far smaller interest rate than that of the Iron Bank, yes," The Old Lion acknowledged, "Though the more pressing matter is what our Hand intends to do with such swollen coffers."

"I intend to follow Lord Stark's excellent example by building roads to connect the Mountains of the Vale. The increased flow of commerce, however, means that the Vale will need to finish off the First Men raiders permanently." He glanced at Shiera and Lord Hoster, "If they are amenable to such a proposition, I am willing to pay my westerly and northerly neighbors a fair bit of coin to help with such a bloody affair. We would storm the lowlands of the Vale to hunt the tribes to extinction. My ancestors have shown them mercy for too many centuries. Now is the time for House Arryn to execute justice." Sansa noticed Arya shift in her seat at this.

"I feel uncomfortable at the notion of Winterfell's coffers being filled in exchange for murdering other descendants of the First Men," The girl interjected, "My Lord Hand." She added the last bit hastily though without reminder, which was a great accomplishment actually.

"What would you have Lord Arryn do, girl?" Grand Maester Pycelle sneered at her in response, "Make merry with those bands of ruthless heathens?"

"I am no 'girl', Maester Pycelle, you will do well to remember that you speak to a Lady of House Stark," Arya snapped back with double the ferocity. "Your words betray the true issue at hand. These men, women, and children do not follow the Andal ways. So by that faulty logic then they must be savages who deserve to be put to the sword. All because the South chewed them up and spit them out." Her grey eyes were like a blizzard. Sansa had often caught glimpses of the great beauty her sister would become since learning of her resemblance to their Aunt Lyanna. That moment was no exception. Arya looked wild, natural, and dangerously righteous. "Aye, Lord Arryn, my uncle," She sat back with a graceful spine, "We will gladly clear your lands of the First Men. They will be brought to the North and granted sanctuary in our lands."

"Sister," Sansa decided to test the girl gently, "Do you know much of the Vale Mountain Clans? They are a far cry from the Manderlys."

"I have read briefly of them while researching the history of the First Men," She countered firmly.

"Children's tales," Lord Baelish scoffed with dancing eyes until Sansa looked upon him. He fell silent like a squire trying to flirt for the first time.

"They believe that everyone, no matter their appearance, should have the opportunity to be heard. In the North we admire such honorable traits in how our people conduct themselves. Just look at the Northern Mountain Clans." That last bit was asserted with a steely firmness. "Perhaps these tribes are too troublesome for the Vale, that is understandable," The tone softened to a more winning trill, "We will help to chain them. Escort them all to lands where they are wanted. That is my final word on the matter." Shiera was doubtlessly impressed by Arya's intuition. Immigrants were hard to come by in the North without a major culture clash which was unfortunate given the great population shortages. Now they would have at least five-thousand men in fighting condition, as well as twice that number of women and children. So long as they assimilated peacefully, of course.

Despite the fact that he would paying them well for such a service, it was a service nonetheless, so Lord Arryn inclined his head. "I am amenable to that peaceful resolution, Lady Arya." He turned to face the rest of the table again. "Over the course of several years I have also researched agricultural methods utilizing the libraries of King's Landing. With this loan I shall invest in the terraced farming that has been successfully employed in Yi Ti for millennia. Much of the irrigation networks provided by our mountains do not drain low enough to reach the fields. Funding similar projects should allow the Vale to maximize its production levels." The implications were enormous though Tywin Lannister still seemed disinterested. The Vale produced some of the sweetest, ripest, largest crops in Westeros though they were notoriously limited by a lack of land. If they could begin growing on their mountains, Sansa realized, it would cause their population to rise significantly.

"Targeted quantities of the loan shall be directed towards the establishment of innovative millery, sawmill, wool, and mining proposals I have received from my vassals." A pregnant pause preceded what he clearly presumed would be a controversial proposition. "The larger part of the remaining loan will be funneled into upgrading the city of Gulltown into a major competitor on the Narrow Se-."

"No," The Old Lion cut off the Hand in a rude, short, and declarative tone. "I convinced his grace to allow me to sit in on these negotiations as an impartial party. So that you would not use your influence for selfish purposes, Lord Arryn." No one dared to scoff at the dangerous politician. "You know as well as I do that Gulltown already threatens the stability of societal order in the East. Merchants bribing Lords to marry their commonborn daughters, and it would only grow worse if they found themselves with any more influence. I will advise the King against granting such a charter."

"What of the Spicers, Lord Lannister," Drazenko Rogare rebutted, "The many merchants of Lannisport who have been allowed to freely marry your noble-blooded cousins."

"Lesser Lords," The man dismissed firmly.

"Lords nonetheless," Johanna Rogare reinforced her brother's argument. "Gulltown is already a vital source of the Crown's taxes. With the eastern artisans we intend to send to the Vale can you not recognize the economic boom that shall occur? How can such opportunity be denied on the flimsy basis of hypocrisy?"

"You go too far you Valyrian wench," Maester Pycelle leant forth sharply, "This is the father of Queen Cersei. Grandfather to the Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon. Lord of the Westerlands. Do not presume that a banker can speak down to a Lord of Lannister and keep their tongue after."

"Perhaps this is the best time to inform you all," The lovely Rogare smiled with a devastating cunning, "But my brother has negotiated with Lord Tully during the fortnight since our arrival. I am betrothed to Ser Edmure and will one day, should the heavens grant us such a blessing, rule as the Lady of Riverrun. Do not presume to insult me, or my family again, Maester Pycelle."

"House Rogare returning to Westerosi politics. How surprising indeed." Tywin Lannister announced the development in a most glacial of tones. "I will permit this proposed 'betterment' of Gulltown, Lord Arryn, to your own detriment. Know now, however, that the Vale's taxes will be raised by ten-percent as soon as the first Dragon is dropped upon that cesspit of lowborn hagglers. Furthermore, Lord Baelish will include in the contract that any resulting conflicts between the eastern nobility and merchant class shall not receive even the least bit interference from the Crown." The short man had been copying the terms of the discussions upon a scroll of parchment since the beginning. Sansa noted with a slight bit of satisfaction that her penmanship was far superior.

"Now for the Riverlands," Drazenko sat up a bit straighter. He knew as well as everyone did that these discussions in particular would be far more tense. The region was the center of the Realm, and everyone would wish to suppress the development of neighbours who were already so competitive. She conscientiously prepared herself for the resistance to her ambitious plans. "As part of my sister's dowry Lord Tully will be subjected to a twenty percent interest, which shall only increase by two percent after three years have passed."

"The quantity of gold?" Maester Pycelle harrumphed humorlessly.

"Five-hundred-thousand gold Dragons," The violet-eyed man answered to the gobsmacked expressions of all present.

"Many plans, I take it, Lord Tully?" Shiera turned to him with a delighed look on her face.

"Many plans indeed, Lady Seastar," He straightened his tunic prior to snapping at his son. The hassled knight quickly stood to pass around identical papers covered with the same numbers. "Projected sums from each of my planned investments," Her kindly grandfather had turned into a ruthless businessman. Sansa noted that neither Lords Arryn or Lannister seemed quite surprised. In that moment she recalled how this was the same man who married his two daughters off to Lord Paramounts, and now his son to a revitalized banking family of Lys. "The River Road will be expanded upon to connect Maidenpool with the rest of our Kingdom. A new pathway called the River Road connecting Riverrun, Fairmarket, and Seagard shall be constructed as well."

"Half-a-million Dragons to construct two roads?" Lord Baelish jibed, prompting the Tully's faces to burn red again. "What a well-developed plan."

"Seagard, the Stoney Sept, Maidenpool, Fairmarket, Saltpans, and Lord Harroway's Town will be granted charters to become cities. I intend to assist all of these settlements financially in becoming as profitable as possible as swiftly as can be managed. The Crown will be given a far larger share of the Riverlands taxes, of course."

"An increase by thirty-percent, non-negotiable," Came Tywin Lannister's arrogant indignance again, "As well as a convincing answer to a burning question I have. How does your House intend to prevent these suddenly monumentally wealthy Lords from attempting to overthrow the diminished might of Riverrun? Especially when these lands are already so divided."

"The Stoney Sept will be overseen by my brother, Ser Brynden, who I have summoned back from the Vale. Fairmarket shall be ruled by my son and his new wife until they must return to Riverrun at my passing." Tully-blue eyes peered firmly at the Lannister. "The river kings of old denied such charters, yes, and for good reason. Though with the peace provided by our Baratheon King I know that many of those ancient concerns can be handled easily enough until the new order has been firmly established. The benefits are decidedly worth the risk." He flicked the first page of the sums, which must have been painfully difficult to so perfectly transcribe. "All of these settlements have been punching above the belt in the centuries since Aegon the Conqueror ceded the Riverlands to the management of House Tully. Even in Lord Harroways' Town and the Saltpans where the leadership is admittedly less than resolute."

"Might I add, Lord Lannister," Edmure's betrothed cut in sharply, "These towns already compete with established ports all across the world. When granted those charters the Riverlands will yield as much in taxes as the Reach and Westerlands. We will settle for a fifteen percent increase at most. Anything more than that is a highway robbery." She smiled genially at them all in turn. "I have also plotted with Lord Tully to institute a unifying, political organization at Riverrun. Every Lordly House of the Riverlands will send a representative to reside in this great seat so that they may be given equal say in their governance. It will be known as the Grand Assembly of Riverlords."

"Would it not be more apt to call it the Grand Assembly of Hostages?" Lord Baelish snorted mockingly. As though unaware of the ire it stoked in his already reluctant hosts.

"Clever," Lord Tywin spoke with a dryness to his voice, "I am confident that you will be capable of tightening your hold over the growing merchant class. More so than I am with Lord Arryn's proposition for Gulltown, at least." Which did not say much at all, truthfully. Sansa filled in the condescending blanks easily enough. "What of the remaining funds?"

"I will be investing in new ventures much like my goodson. Whatever Dragons remain will be spared for my granddaughter to do with as she pleases," The Lord of Riverrun placed a reassuring hand over her's. "Tell them of what you have been plotting, my sweet girl. Certainly no daughter of Catelyn's would be lacking clever plans to share with us all."

Shocked at having been given such an incredible opportunity she almost froze. Sansa had anticipated having to force her ideas into the foray as she always did. Her grandfather, whom she was already growing to love rather dearly, had just offered his full confidence in her. He could _see_ her worth without requiring any proof. Something Sansa wished her own father was capable of. "I propose only one thing," She stood elegantly to both feet, snapping at her Ladies-in-Waiting. The eldest Stark daughter was just as well prepared as her Tully relatives, if not moreso. Unrolling a freshly painted, large, vibrant map of the Riverlands she waited until everyone was provided with the proper documents.

"A canal," She pointed at a large splotch of red annotations from the Blue Fork to a spot on the Ironman's bay which was very close to Seagard. Pycelle laughed incredulously, Tywin Lannister folded his arms with a furrowed brow, Lord Baelish eyed her with a speculative gleam in his eyes.

"What would you know of canals, Lady Stark?" Pycelle wheezed out, "Such a task is hardly a simple thing to accomplish."

"Nor would I tolerate it," Tywin Lannister did not deign to hiss, though his lips emitted a nasty edge.

"Your power over these matters extends no further than the topics of taxes and city charters, Lord Lannister. We have already received your consent to convert all major settlements along the Trident into cities. Taxes can be debated after I am finished speaking, yet you have no power to prevent this measure from going through. Lord Arryn will surely convince the King otherwise." She smiled prettily, "I am certain that the King tires of hearing the Lannisters demand things of him. Perhaps it will please him to give in to the Starks and their allies for once." Spinning back to Pycelle she allowed the uplifting of her lips to fall away. "Winterfell has one of the finest collections of books in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps fine enough to rival the Citadel of Old Town." Clapping gracefully she watched as a flustered serving girl slipped forth with a bulging leather sack. "Help me, Lady Wylla," Sansa untied the strings to reveal ancient, delicate scrolls. As rehearsed they began to spread the papers artfully around the map. Earmarked pages in massive tomes, yellowed scrolls from Valyria, pictures of Essossi cities.

"I have researched my idea extensively." The Stark maiden for once did not feel as though she were playing behind Shiera's shadow. No, this was her. This was a ghost of the politician she would one day become. "The lands between the Bay and Blue Fork are soggy, so unfarmable that they could be called useless. Though those conditions only mean the land will be far easier to break up. Furthermore draining the excess water would greatly improve Seagard's agricultural yields." No one spoke over her. They all were either waiting to laugh at a coming stutter, or for the conclusion of what could be a grand undertaking. "Such a venture would certainly pay for itself thousandfold, thrice that even. A controlled channel through the heart of Westeros would bring immense prosperity to this kingdom, the likes of which few of us have ever seen before."

New markings were made with the ink bottle that Syggi helpfully offered her. "Barrowton has been granted a charter to begin building a new Westerossi city, as you all should have heard by now. All of these small harbors in the Northern Westerlands will thrive like they never have before, Lord Lannister. For the first time in thousands of years your House will be able to bypass the Tyrells in matters of trade."

"An intriguing dream, Lady Stark," He agreed, "Despite my immense desire to blindly support a method of undercutting the Tyrells, Hightowers, and Redwynes, I need something more substantial to consider."

Here was what she worried would be the weakest part of her plotting. "The smaller portions of my grandfather's remaining loan would need to be directed towards widening the Blue Fork, Red Fork, and Trident rivers as well modifying bridges to accommodate larger ships. That is a necessity if this new channel is to reshape how trade in Westeros is to be conducted." Nervousness was not allowed to show at all, not with so many enemies before her. "The greater portions would be directed into the construction of something undeniably groundbreaking." Here she, with great delicacy, unrolled the final scroll. "An ancient schematic describing the Crimson Canal of Valyria."

"Even in Volantis and Braavos," More references were pointed to, "They have not been able to surpass the Crimson Canal let alone match its ingenuity. No, you will only see simple flash locks if you travel along either of those waterways. We will accomplish something far greater." Tully-blue eyes awash with excitement she pointed to her own replications of the Valyrian document which was littered with markings. "Massive gates of epic dimensions will be watertight when shut. Trading galleys, cogs, longships, and even war galleys will be lifted into the Ironman's bay by the flooding of this cavity, this one here, with water. Such an innovation will enable the Mallisters to prevent the Ironman's Bay from overflowing into the Riverlands."

"As loyal as they are, granddaughter," Lord Tully frowned, "What is to counteract giving the Mallisters such power? They will collect a hefty toll, and control access to the Riverlands. Even the Grand Assembly of Riverlords would not be capable of manipulating such growth into a more… Manageable direction."

"You will select a noble, one who has proven themself many times over to be a dedicated proponent of peace and prosperity in Westeros. They shall be granted the confluence of the trident to construct a twin set to the already suggested locks. As well as a fortress which represents the new prosperity to be attained in the Riverlands." Her head pivoted in a specific direction. "Not only will Lady Seastar provide a capable check to growing Mallister influence, but she will be in a position to oversee any happenings within the Saltpans and Lord Harroway's Town."

The response was immediate, everyone yelling at everyone, except for Tywin Lannister who simply stared at her with those chilling eyes. "We have already established that Lady Shiera is now free to pursue prosperity all across Westeros. She has been loyal and massively important to these proceedings. Without her assistance I may never have been able to share my plans for this canal." More papers were withdrawn only to be tossed unceremoniously before Lord Baelish. "Tell us what you make of these documents, my Lord," Her voice turned to honey, "Help us all examine this matter from the perspective of economic prosperity rather than a bitter bias against Targaryen blood."

He did just that. Scanning over pages at a time prior to passing the examined documents to Lord Tywin. Eventually the man glanced up at her prompting Sansa to do everything she could to not flinch. "These papers are a comprehensive detailing of Lady Seastar's wealth," The man explained to all present.

"Partial detailing," Sansa corrected, "There is much more to her name than that alone. Not included is the wealth that was discovered in the Crypts of Winterfell which my father protects for her."

"I have no choice but to support Lady Stark in appointing Lady Seastar to preside over the confluence. She has been returned the Lysene trading company she owned in her… Previous era of history." He folded his fingers, "The Magisters of Lys have also awarded herself _and_ her future heir lifetime positions on the Council of Trade. The sheer infrastructure beholden to her name is enough to pour much more tax revenue into the King's treasury. I believe it would be lunacy not to support improvements in the Riverlands which might satiate the King's proclivity for spending. Especially with numbers as convincing as these."

"Given that we are no longer discussing the Vale," Shiera followed Baelish up closely, "It would be much more time efficient to hold a vote. Three members of the Small Council sit with us, all of whom are ethically unrestricted on this topic and capable of evaluating these proposed reforms fairly. Do you agree with that Lord Lannister?"

Before he could respond Sansa withdrew a folded paper from the cover of a newer book on channel locks. She slid it to the Lord prompting him to read the contents out of the way of Pycelle's wandering eyes. "It is agreeable," He pocketed the scrap of parchment, "Would you like to start, Lord Arryn?" The Hand voted yes, Pycelle voted no, and it all came down to Lord Baelish. With another slimy smile in her direction he gave the Tullys what they so desperately wanted. A fuming Maester Pycelle was the first to leave, followed closely by a sauntering Lord Baelish much to Sansa's relief. "I met your grandfather several times before he was executed," The Old Lion stared directly at her, ignoring everyone else, "I daresay you are the sort of child such an ambitious Lord would have appreciated." With that he left alongside the Hand.

Releasing a guttural sounding breath Sansa fell back into her seat. Clutching at the arms like her life depended upon it. She felt very close to hyperventilating at what they all had just managed to accomplish. Syggi swept close behind to wrap the pelt from her shoulders around Sansa's own. "You saved that deal," Shiera stared fully at her shaking form, "And made me a Lady of what will be a great port."

"Yes, she certainly held her own well enough against Tywin Lannister. As well as that snivelling coward who had the gall to visit our home again." Edmure piped up while Johanna smiled up at the firm support shown for his niece.

"We will not discuss him again, Edmure. Take your betrothed and her brother for a walk of the Godswood." Hoster Tully steered the conversation away from a topic which clearly pained him. Clearly Sansa would have to ask her mother of the unnerving little man upon her return to Winterfell. "There is one last matter to see to." He stared at each of the Stark children with equal intensity. "Your grandmother was a lovely woman. I remember the way she filled a room with light. Like a ray of the sun on a cloudy day. She gave me greater gifts than any of the Seven could have, and I will love her dearly for it until my last breath." He reached arthritically upwards to squeeze Sansa's hand again. "Minisia was also a Whent. Which is why Lord Arryn has tasked me with finding a suitable replacement for the Lordship of Harrenhal." He took his time with the next words. "Your mother was wise enough to have been a Lady of Riverrun. I decided otherwise, and have always regretted never seeing her rise to her fullest potential."

"You will be the new Lady of Harrenhal, Sansa Stark, and I expect that you will impress me greatly."

OOOO

They stopped at Oldstones on their way home. On their way back to the North where the plains, mountains, icy seas, and Walls of ice awaited. To the lands which would always call to Stark blood like a song. Robb, Arya, and all of the Ladies-in-Waiting except got deliriously drunk from the wine pilfered to them by Stark guards. Lying amidst the ancient stones that had belonged to House Mudd so long ago Sansa was pressed snugly between Arya and Robb's shoulders. "I never asked, Sansa," Robb stared up at the stars whilst jostling her from her sober thoughts. "What did you put on that paper to persuade Tywin Lannister to allow the canal to be built?"

"His merchants can travel without a toll for a year-and-a-half after construction has finished," She responded in a simple tone.

Drunken giggles broke from Arya's mouth at that. "I bet he left to shit gold," She leant upon both elbows atop the grass. Black locks tangling to her elbows. Looking very much a wild beauty again. Perhaps Rhaegar Targaryen had seen Aunt Lyanna in the same such manner. That certainly would have explained her abduction in a way the eldest Stark daughter could understand.

"I am truly sorry to break up such a pathetic sight," Shiera's voice caused them all too startle in a slight panic. "Sansa, we must talk in private while your siblings make drunken fools of themselves." Sitting up she maneuvered her silken skirts until her bare feet were both firmly planted in the fertile ground. Nothing felt nicer than walking barefoot across the lands of her Tully ancestors. They did not travel up the hill but instead journeyed down it. Sansa was familiar enough with Lady Seastar's enigmatic ways that she did not question the situation. Ashes, elms, oaks, pines, and sentinels drowned them within their silent midsts. A late evening mist rose from where the Blue Fork rushed out of the Trident. They must have walked quite a ways then indeed.

In that moment Sansa noticed that her governess kept a leather satchel slung about her shoulder. "You are silent, sweet Sansa. Do you bask in the glory of your accomplishments, or in the beauty of nature?" The Great Bastard stopped on the bank of the Trident. She glowed brighter than a star beneath the moonlight. Silver hair shining like the moon, skin glowing more prettily than a pearl.

"Before Robb and Arya woke me, I was dreaming of blood. Not the sort that misery springs free of. The kind of blood that a mother might shed birthing her first babe. The blood of a maiden who has been taken by a man for the first time. The blood which is shared between a father and son. Which is stored in the earth for millenia nourishing the descendants of both." A gasp for the chilly air broke free of her lips.

The sack was settled atop the muddy dirt Shiera stood in. "What are you not telling me, sweetling?" She began to strip free of her very pretty gown prior to exposing that beautiful body to the world. There was nothing sexual to the ministrations. Only loveliness, and it all seemed so natural.

"You were in my dream. The blood of House Stark," Sansa admitted whilst fingering her simple dresses buttons. "The nourishment. The maiden. The mother. You are the soil upon which my brother's sons and daughters will feast upon. Your corpse will stink of sacrifice, yet the sweetest kind." The girl could only half-understand herself, but it seemed to make perfect sense at the same time. Abandoning any reluctance she stripped down as well. Slipping closer to Shiera until they stood facing the Trident. Fingers locked tightly together.

"Do you trust me Sansa Stark? Do you trust your greendreams?" Shiera asked.

"You once told me that I could only trust the woman who gave birth to me, Shiera Seastar," Sansa answered firmly. "Do as you did in my dream of this very same thicket, of the river which rages before us. Give me life and become my second mother. Then I shall trust you." Not a moment later did they wait to slip into the cold waters. Only then did the Great Bastard reach for the objects hidden within her satchel.

 _Milk_ ….

 _Blood….._

 _Valyrian Steel…._

 _Red Rose Petals…._

 _White Eyes…._

 _Salt…_

Only a skeletal figure watched the proceedings as an almost reverential wonder was awoken. Something that he had intended to remain dormant forever was coaxed into the world.

Sansa Stark gasped for breath as she rose above the cold waves of the Trident.

Crimson locks shining underneath the light of the blazing sun even though she had only gone under the water what seemed like moments before.

OOOO

Yes, I built a canal. Why you ask, did I follow the biggest trope in ASOIAF fanfiction? Because I felt like it. Hopefully you enjoyed my extensive world-shaping. Now we have a ton of wealthy Houses on the verge of war. Who will survive? So many characters had to be included that I hardly focused on Drazenko/Sansa this chapter. Though at this stage their 'relationship' has grown as much as it can. Also, forgive any grammatical errors. This thing was seventeen pages long...


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: Not Just a Cock with a Title (Part One).

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

Robb Stark longed to ride free of Winterfell's walls. To be free of the dreary accounting which sat in front of him. Instead he simply stood to peer from the window of his own personal solar. With the new responsibilities the young man had taken charge of it had grown necessary to have a study. Especially after his mother had caught sight of the mounds of papers which had swallowed his chambers two years prior. Basking in the sunlight the Stark heir peered outwards at the lands of his ancestors. Those very lands he would someday soon be expected to manage.

Of course, that did not mean he was not already playing a grand role in helping his father with the task. An incredibly massive one at that. In the three years since Lady Seastar had left for her southerly keep, more of a palace in truth, the Northern economy suffered an incomprehensible boom. First had been the completion of the roads. An overflow of Smallfolk became better enabled to pursue the selling of their wares in more competitive markets such as White Harbor. Quality of product rose to heights never before seen by any in the sprawling kingdom. A merchant class was beginning to form, and with it came a rich flow of trade. No longer were the Starks and their vassals forced to lay claim to haphazardly stitched wool, or mottled steel. The best each corner of the North had to offer was now easily traded elsewhere leading to an increased interest from merchants all over the world. Essos, Westeros, the Summer Isles, and even from as far as Quarth they travelled to capitalize on the suddenly unrestricted, less-isolated economy.

The other components of the suddenly explosive growth were much more incrimentalized steps however. First had been the connection of Flint's Cliff to White Harbor which also included the Neck. A swampy region that once barely supported itself let alone contributed much at all in taxes was suddenly quite wealthy indeed. The Reed's enjoyed a monopoly on their exotic goods which could hardly be found elsewhere. Above Greywater Watch sat Moat Cailin which had been partially repaired. The basalt curtain stood tall once more, and four towers rose high in the air while the remainder stretched a bit higher with each lucrative raid that passed Beyond-the-Wall. After that came the establishment of a port at Barrowton. While not much of a change at first, at least not when compared to the Manderlys, the Dustins opened vital trade with the Reach, Lannisport, and Dorne. They also kept an eye over House Stark's westerly fleet of twenty-five war galleys.

Much closer to the Wall things were changing at a rapid pace. At Kingshouse, the seat of House Magnar, a wooden port had been constructed. Of course with all of the expensive timber that was supplied to the Free Cities from the Wall Lord Magnar was allegedly planning on crafting one from stone. While House Magnar focused on building ships for both the Starks, and the Rogare Bank, his vassals prospered in production of trade. Obsidian blades, rich pelts, and a thriving Unicorn trade funneled much into the formerly impoverished coffers of Skagos. Of course, the Umbers benefited greatly from their new marriage alliances and were trading fabrics at an increasingly competitive pace.

West of the Stoneborn, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea now possessed an intimidating fleet of slightly more than two-hundred longships. A frequent contingent of Northern soldiers meant that the Watch now was able to launch devastating surprise attacks against the Wildlings resulting in a mass exodus westwards. Of course, they had already been coalescing beneath a turncloak named Mance Rayder and the increased skirmishes only lent the man more support. Unfortunately for this King-Beyond-the-Wall the Starks had implemented powerful new policies. The Order of the North swelled violently across the lands ensuring the King's laws were enforced for the first time in history. Several bloody battles had left the Order with many swathes of new ground. Which included rich mines, crops, settlements full of trinkets, and forests of Weirwoods to confiscate. House Stark took such a large profit from these ventures alone that little direction was given to Marlon Manderly who headed the organization.

Every one of the eighteen postings on the Wall were firmly garrisoned at all times leading to a great decrease in Wildling raids. Beneath Benjen Stark's leadership much had changed in a short period of time. While the Order and the rotational contingents supplemented the Watch he was free to deal with the unsavoury amongst his ranks. Corruption was punished harshly which meant that he could pursue what had turned out to be a very… Radical approach to dealing with the Free Folk. Many came to the Wall after they were caught on the wrong side of the Order's encroaching barricades. Begging for mercy former Lord Commanders certainly would not have provided. In a break with tradition Robb's uncle allowed all surrendering Wildlings to resettle the New Gift on two conditions. Children were to stay at the Wall as hostages after their parents bent the knee in King Robert's name.

Land was broken, tilled, and put to good use as the masses of thousands of broken refugees kept their former enemies fed. In another extreme development the Lord Commander managed to capture what remained of the dwindling species Beyond-the-Wall. In addition to Unicorns which had been disseminated largely across the North once more there were soon increasing populations of other rare beasts. Aurochs grew the fastest of the new additions. Providing more milk or meat than any cow ever could have. Giant Elk were large enough to feed a village, of which there were now many, on the Old Gift for days. They also feasted upon twigs which was far more efficient than sparing grain on horse labour. Finally were those few mammoths that had been captured so far, only a mere fifty of them. Each produced enough fertilizer to feed more than a hundred men come winter time. Though they were slow to repopulate. In those three years the numbers were only just barely over one-hundred-fifty.

He stared firmly at the most recent reports upon his desk. With change also came new problems. Upon Lady Seastar's insistence silver deposits had been found in the lands of the mountain clans. At least, some of them found silver while others either found tin, copper, iron, all of the four, nothing at all, and in some rare cases, gold. Certainly nowhere near what the Lannisters had beneath their belt, but any gold within the North was an important discovery nonetheless. Lord Norrey had the largest quantity of silver and iron in his high mountains. Torghen Flint meanwhile managed to lay claim to what were not entirely unremarkable deposits of gold and thrice as much copper. House Wull already resented that it was no longer the wealthiest of the clans without the matter of the First Men immigrants.

Many of the more rambunctious of the Vale's raiders had been put to the sword. What remained, at least ten-thousand men, women, and children, had sworn themselves to the Starks prior to being resettled alongside the culturally similar Northern clans. Needless to say the majority of these reformed savages were sent to supplement the region's new mining centers. This all meant that House Wull no longer could call itself the strongest of the clans either given the influx of new warriors. Every further report of land encroachments and minor skirmishes caused by the formerly dominant Wulls troubled Robb. He worried often that a change in leadership would come to pass.

To the east trouble brewed as well where the Karstarks and Boltons had united in clashing against the Umbers rising prominence. Furthermore, the two Houses were bitterly opposed to relations with Skagos and the Wildlings whom the Umbers had forged many new ties. Concerningly enough Alys Karstark had been betrothed for a brief period of time to Domeric Bolton until the heir of the Dreadfort suffered his terrible sickness. Further compounding the deepening crisis was that the Boltons and Karstarks had grown disconnected from Winterfell in the previous century. Manipulating them into marriages with their new foes could not be arranged as easily as had been done with the Umbers.

Then much further south, well away from the North rose another threat. Pirates had been drawn like flies to honey by the Sunset Canal. Trade boomed as Essosi merchants flocked from the Saltpans all the way to Seagard, and either on to Blackcrown, the burgeoning port of Barrowton, or Lannisport. Then they would flock back out of the heavily controlled gates only to be set upon by the savages of the uncontrolled Stepstones. The piracy was not limited to the Bay of Crabs. Gulltown had sent reports of daring attacks just within the view of their watchtowers. Most daring of all had been a terrifying report from the Sisters two years earlier. A ferocious pack of brigands and sell sails had landed at the new, ramshackle, timber ports on the three islands established by Jon Arryn to promote trade relations with White Harbor. The attack was now referred to as the Second Rape. Sweetsister had been brutalized viciously, while half of Littlesister was razed to the ground. Only Longsister managed to remain unscathed.

Since then the Order of the Weirwood had been withdrawn from aiding in raids Beyond-the-Wall in favour of setting sail for the Stepstones. With Robert Baratheon's reluctant permission three-quarters of the North's easterly fleet which had fifty war galleys was sent away. Jon Arryn sent forty of his own sixty war galleys along as well with twice the number of men spared by House Stark. In a strong show of support Hoster Tully had ordered five of the ten galleys located in the port of Maidenpool to join the bitter crusade. Robb often read reports with a fear that one of the Free Cities would start another war over Westeros's sudden presence on the islands. Especially given House Stark's connection to House Rogare, as well as the fact that they had provided the Lyseni Bank with a fleet of two-hundred ships. Fortunately no such conflict had yet to rear its ugly head.

Having only just finished his sums the young Lord sipped at a goblet of wine which had been delivered with his meager lunch. Matters of diplomatic and political sensitivity often gave him an upset stomach. "Robb!" Arya burst within the modestly sized solar from her own study a floor below. Since Lady Seastar had left Winterfell to pursue her own interests, and Sansa began to travel much more frequently their Lord father had delegated them both much of the responsibilities left behind.

Robb had become an overseer to his father's economic affairs while Arya worked on many of her own projects. The now twelve-year-old girl had initiated her own 'Order of the Rose'. Young women all over the North with no families were given the opportunity to learn to fight with steel. Their Lord father had only supported it so that the Smallfolk would have more societal structure when the men were away fighting Wildlings. So for several months each year the conscripts journeyed to either Winterfell, Greywater Watch, or Bear Island where they were, at the very least, given an idea of how to properly utilize weapons. When that training season was not in session Arya was sent to various Northern settlements to examine the progress made by Lady Seastar's team of engineers. Almost every keep, excepting the Dreadfort and Karhold of course, now had shelters that could be used during increasingly colder weather patterns. Already survival rates were rising at a jaw-dropping rate.

"Arya," He gestured to the piles of papers on his desk, "I am busy with my sums."

A frown marred the Stark maiden's face in response. She had grown quite lovely in the prior three years. Following Arya's recent travel to deal with another case of discord amongst the Mountain Clans the Norrey heir had ridden all the way to Winterfell begging for her hand in marriage. Robb had never been prouder than when his wild, hot-blooded little sister scarred the man's cheek with the sword that now seemed to always be strapped about her waist. 'Tell your friends not to simper to my father for my hand in marriage ever again,' She had proclaimed, 'I am no broodmare to be sold to the highest bidder.' Brown locks swirled agitatedly about her waist as the young Lady placed both hands upon her silk-clad hips.

Odd, Robb thought to himself suddenly, that his little sister was not yet dressed in her riding clothes. Every morning the girl would go for a ride upon the fine stallion gifted to her by Jonelle Cerwyn when she last journeyed to Stallion's Brook. "I am so sorry to interrupt your musings of salt, fish, and the Barren Shore." With that she tossed a pile of wrinkled parchments before him on the desk.

"Arya," He reached for the documents, "Do you understand what we could accomplish if the Stony Shore were sufficiently utilized? Salt deposits do not just mean more trade for Blackcrown. It means that our fishermen can preserve larger quantities of what they catch. Such an influx of food into the westerly stores could let us survive a year more in winter at the least-."

"Read the letters," She sighed, interrupting him before slipping into the seat opposite.

Annoyed at her disinterest in such an exciting prospect he did as bidden. Jon was writing to them from the Summer Isles. When he had begun to express an interest in joining the Night's Watch, Lady Seastar had convinced their father to send him away on a pivotal mission. Forging new trade alliances and searching for ways to bolster their production levels during winter. He often wrote Arya of the things to be seen in Essos though Robb did not care much to read of them. The Stark heir bitterly resented being denied an opportunity to see the world. Setting it aside he scanned a letter from Bran who had been sent to Fairmarket to squire with their Uncle Brynden. Somehow the Great Bastard managed to convince their father to send the boy away to forge important connections with Houses in the Vale. He doubted if his Lady mother had ever forgiven the Great Bastard for it.

Then came something quite important. "Are you sure? Absolutely certain this came from our uncle?" He hissed aloud.

"Yes. Maester Luwin said he broke the seal of the Night's Watch." Arya answered with grey eyes that did not glint. She clearly recognized as well that this was nothing to be trifled with. Robb's blood coursed in his ears as he propped his face into both hands. "How will we deal with the Boltons and Karstarks Robb? They will surely riot in response to such news." He nodded slowly at that. Wildlings were one thing to allow south of the Wall. Hostages could be taken to effectively control the masses of them that flowed through every day. For nine giants and a dozen skinchangers to be allowed into the North was no better than to cry out for trouble.

"We can only be grateful that he had the giants chained, and the skinchangers locked in boxes. The only question is whether they will truly bend the knee to father." He could see the benefits, of course, if this were to be pulled off. Robb remembered how long it had taken for the Sunset Canal to be completed only to imagine how rapidly eight giants might have expedited the process. The Skinchangers perhaps could be put use as well. Unfortunately Roose Bolton was a cold, calculating man. He would doubtlessly be able to see beyond the Stark army growing even more engorged with Wildling defectors.

Any further dialogue was interrupted by the sound of the gates to Winterfell opening. "She is here!" Arya jumped up to sweep elegantly towards the window. "We were not expecting her to arrive for another three days!" He followed at a measured pace to note that, indeed, the banners quartered by black bats and direwolves were flapping within the wind. Robb smiled despite the nervousness growing in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps his sister could help provide insight on how they would be able to best quell the growing unease in the northeast. Following closely behind Arya they arrived in the courtyard only to find their fifteen-year-old sister embracing their parents.

"Robb, Arya!" Sansa smiled prior to flinging herself at them as though she were still just a daughter of Lord Stark, and not the Lady of Harrenhal. Since having first been declared as such she had fallen into a tight migratory pattern. Spending only so much time at Winterfell helping to devise clever ways to pay back the Rogares only to travel back to Harrenhal to relieve her steward of his duties. None of them resented her for it, as Shiera's settlement depended heavily on a close alliance with the formerly royal seat. Beneath Sansa's capable administrative prowess a surplus of crops poured endlessly from the rich lands around the God's Eye into the Great Bastard's thriving city. Of course, from what news Winterfell received it seemed that the young woman had been focusing quite a bit lately on making gradual repairs to Harrenhal. Given that the settlement was now becoming a quasi-city after the success of her recent ventures.

She stooped gracefully to kiss the top of Rickon's head as he toddled over from his lessons with Maester Luwin. A mischievous smile lit her bright blue eyes as a servant carrying a crate was beckoned over. Part of the girl's lucrative position in the south meant that she now travelled with an expansive retinue of knights, guardsmen, servants, and as always, her Ladies-in-Waiting. "We were travelling up the Kingsroad when Jeyne stumbled across a great oddity." Sansa stepped away from Rickon to coo gently into the box as it was lowered onto the cobbles. "A Direwolf was gored to death by a stag, yet what was truly unusual was that she managed to whelp after dying." In a short few moments the Riverine beauty was handing Direwolf pups to her siblings. "Five of them," Sansa lied, even though there were six, perhaps to avoid upsetting their mother, "For each of your children, father."

"Absolutely not!" Their Lady mother was understandably horrified at the prospect of her children having anything to do with such dangerous animals.

"Father!" Arya complained, "We will feed them, and train them ourselves! If we can handle unease amongst the Mountain Clans we can certainly handle the sigil of our House!"

The Lord of Winterfell stared sternly at them all as his daughter's retinue dissolved into the castle. "You will swear to respect these beasts," He intoned firmly, "As well as to ensure that they are properly trained. Direwolves are the sort of creature that will rip a man's arm off if he is a cruel master." Each of them did as bidden, even Sansa despite the relative independence provided by her powerful position. "Tell Bran as well," The man said, "When you have his delivered to him in the Riverlands." Sansa nodded, as Robb smiled fondly down at his own pup. For a blessed moment he allowed himself to forget all about the coming strife that approached from the Wall.

Only, he did not realize that the true danger approached from the south on beating, black wings.

OOOO

Catelyn Stark often felt less than whole. Her beloved Bran away in the Riverlands with the only comfort being that Uncle Brynden was looking after him. Robb and Arya scurrying about the North at every gust of wind. Sansa spent more than half-the-year away at Harrenhal which was much less comforting. How many of the occupants of that cursed fortress had died? Would Sansa share the same fate, or would it be her own grandsons many years after her death? Firmly, though, the woman put these thoughts from her mind. Sansa was here now, and their time together could be wasted under no circumstances.

The pair of them sat inside of the room where Septa Mordane had so often held the girl's sewing lessons. Tully-blue eyes smiled fondly at how her daughter still seemed to so greatly enjoy lemon cakes. "I should stop," The new Lady of Harrenhal said after her third. "One of my suitors had many lemon trees planted in the orchards of Harrenhal. I will grow fat all too quickly now." Catelyn had been unsurprised to hear tale of the lavish gifts thrusted upon her daughter by various suitors. The girl was more beautiful than she had ever been. Taller, hair as bloody as weirsap, ivory skin, with eyes that seemed to match the colour of the Narrow Sea on a sunny day. Sansa was also one of the most desirable maidens Westeros had to offer now. Only just behind Myrcella Baratheon. An unmarried Lady of what was apparently turning once more into the greatest fortress ever constructed by mankind. Daughter of Eddard Stark, granddaughter of Hoster Tully, and cousin of Robin Arryn now that Jon had died.

"A new suitor?" She reached over to tickled her daughter's wrist playfully as the young beauty shrunk away in response. There had been the Prince of a wealthy province in Yi Ti who gifted her with a magnificent chasset of imperial jade jewelry. A Qartheen merchant that lavished upon her the finest silks whenever he passed through the Sunset Canal to Lannisport. A year's supply of pear brandy from some Tyroshi trading master. Frequent supplies of rich spices from a Pentoshi Magister allegedly smitten with her eldest daughter's intelligence. Most startling had been an Astapori slave trader paying a pretty coin for Harrenhal's Ghost Tower and the accompanying ruinous Sept to be rebuilt.

"Ser Deziel Dalt of Lemonwood," Sansa smiled wearily, "His father presumably heard how enamored I am with lemon cakes. Naturally he sent his heir to gift me with an orchard of their finest lemon trees." She nodded somewhat to herself, "I fear Ser Dalt was more impressed with me than I with him." Long fingers twisted in a jitterish manner against one another. "My focus is on repairing Harrenhal as much as I can. Lady Seastar has been sending generous funds every month to help with the construction costs to repay me for all of the men I leant her. In fact, I must discuss with Robb during my stay whether a trade can be made for weirwood lumber from Beyond-the-Wall."

"Why must you repair Harrenhal at all, sweetling?" Catelyn rarely discussed her daughter's ambitions. They usually focused on the matter of Sansa's many suitors as the Lady of Winterfell attempted to ascertain whom her daughter would one day wed. "The Whents did perfectly well with what they had."

"The Riverlands are booming, mother, like you never could have imagined during your childhood. Thousands of immigrants have flooded grandfather's lands. Harrenhal is not only the one castle sufficiently landed to produce enough food for so many people, but to house enough workers as well." She stared firmly at her mother's concerned face. "I am in a position to help the North continue to prosper. Should the Sunset Canal prompt any more economic stimulation it will only allow Winterfell to collect more in taxes from Blackcrown."

"I must tell you that I worry over the Dustins, Sansa. Your brother has proven himself quite capable in tiding much of the growing disparities in the North. If the Dustins began to rebel I fear it might be far too much for him to manage." The Lady of House Stark admitted this all somewhat guiltily.

"Brother has already written me with such concerns, mother. We plan to send Jocelyn Dustin to White Harbor where she will be wedded to Wendel Manderly. Not only will both ports be united, but the Manderlys are strong enough to keep Lady Barbrey's ambitions in check. Especially with both of the Dustins being our hostages in all-but-name." Now it was the young beauty who reached across the table to reassuringly grasp at her mother's hand. "Robb has grown clever. He has a good head on his shoulders, and a desire to do right by the Smallfolk. Support him, mother. Put your full faith in him if you wish for the North to truly prosper." Sansa's lips tightened, "Especially since father will no longer be here to do soon enough."

"There is no other choice Sansa," The topic twisted like a weathervane, "Your father cannot say no to such an offer from the King. You of all my children should best understand how much wealth we gained from Lysa's marriage to a Hand."

"King's Landing is no place for a Stark," The young woman disagreed firmly, standing to stare out the window.

"That is absurd," Catelyn contradicted, "You have been living in Harrenhal for more than two years at least. Nothing bad has happened."

"My grandfather is also a Lord of Riverrun. I have Riverlord blood running through my veins, nor do I ever dare venture beyond those lands." The Lady of Harrenhal disagreed, "Father is a full-blooded Stark. He has no place living south of the Neck. Alongside the likes of Petyr Baelish and Cersei Lannister." She spun back fully gaze at her mother. "Please do not encourage him to do this mother. The realm will prosper just as well beneath Tywin Lannister. I have bought him off once, and it can surely be done again."

"Your Aunt Lysa says they poisoned Jon Arryn, Sansa," Catelyn reminded her firmly, "We cannot just allow such people to take control of the throne."

"You might not have heard such whispers, mother," Sansa rebutted again, stubborn as a bull, "But Aunt Lysa is hardly a reputable source. She still breastfeeds your nephew though he is six years old! I have heard that our new Lady of the Vale is paranoid by scores."

"Whispers seep from King's Landing like it was built to harbor ill-will," Lady Stark dismissed the slander easily, "Where it originates from does not lend such vile words any credence, however."

A horrified expression flashed across the girl's face as she squared off against the woman who birthed her. "Continue to encourage father in this madness as you already have at your own risk. He is not suited at all for the south, especially not King's Landing. I am certain Lady Shiera will help me in convincing him of such when she arrives to Winterfell." With a painfully formal curtsey Sansa uttered her final words, "Thank you for the lemon cakes Lady Stark. I find myself unsettled by the sudden chill of these chambers, and must take my leave." Without waiting for a response her eldest daughter fled to presumably begin dissuading her father.

Standing tall, Catelyn allowed her feet to carry her elsewhere. Mindlessness was the way she escaped the dread of constantly fretting over her two children who were very far away. Such worries often led to the realization that Rickon would soon be gone to squire like Bran had. This pain the Lady of Winterfell felt today was much worse though. Sometimes it was as though Sansa were no longer her child, not of her womb. Like the girl who had so easily been tucked into bed to tales of Aemon the Dragonknight was gone forever. With a sigh the woman found herself suddenly standing in a very strange place. Overlooking the training yards of Winterfell.

Her daughter's Order of the Rose had drawn the ire of many Northern Lords. Still, that did not mean it failed to bloom. Slightly under three-thousand maidens had been circulated throughout Arya's tutelage at Winterfell, and that of the Mormont women on their outpost of Bear Island. Of course, most of the maidens were from the far North of House Stark's lands. The more southerly bannermen refused to even allow Arya a foothold upon their Smallfolk. "What do you think, mother?" The girl appeared beside Catelyn without any pronouncement. "That is two-hundred women learning to fend for themselves in winter. It is interesting how my Stark forefathers complained about low survival rates, about how the population could never grow. When they denied our women the proper tools for survival."

"The North can be a harsher place than the south," Catelyn was not too proud to admit her prejudices against female warriors had been incorrect. With little more than the Mormonts, Meera Reed, and several hardened Northmen like Rodrik Cassel, Arya had managed to create a threatening force. "With the increase of pirate raids on our coasts it is highly justifiable that more maidens be summoned to Winterfell so they may benefit from such tutelage." Indeed, as the trade flowing from the North, Vale, and Riverlands grew richer the pirates had been attracted by droves. Unfortunately there were no more Wildlings to be snatched from the Eastern side of the Wall. Many young women had been captured in daring raids from Skagos all the way down to White Harbor.

"I wish to have three-thousand more trained by the time winter comes," Arya declared. Catelyn noted how her daughter was not dressed in breeches, but a dress. She was becoming enough of a beauty to rival Sansa or Shiera Seastar, though in an entirely different sort of way. The youngest Stark daughter grew further with each day into a shocking replica of Lyanna. A Wolf Maiden who did whatever she wanted even when told no. The twelve-year-old's mother wagered a decent sum that Arya would wind up in just as powerful of a position as her sister. Both of them had shaped up into cunning Northern Ladies with no hesitance to exploit their ties to the south.

"How? Lords Ryswell, Manderly, Bolton, Karstark, and Lady Dustin have already forbidden you from attempting such a thing in their lands. I do not see how you could add that many Blue Roses to your ranks." Blue Roses were the unofficial nickname for maidens whom Arya had trained in the ways of steel.

"Alysanne Mormont will be stationed on Skane which has been uninhabited since the Feast. Lord Magnar wrote me a letter in which he stated his full support for the Order of the Rose. Many women in Skagos are warriors who will prove capable instructors. The Umbers in turn have finally agreed to send several hundred of their willing women away for training." An excited breath, "I am going to send Meera Reed back to Greywater Watch. Her father now has much more influence from the new trade routes over Flint's Finger and can therefore convince the region to allow full participation. Now for what would undoubtedly be a surprise. "Sansa has already agreed to host a southerly Order of the Rose in the Riverlands. Shiera certainly will also."

Catelyn wondered just how her fellow Rivermen would react to their daughters taking up arms. "Red Roses," She jested, yet without much humour to her tone. Arya silently contemplated the surprisingly apt name whilst moving to lean against the railing next to her mother. The pair of Stark women watched as maidens became warriors.

Neither of them quite aware that they would soon have to make the same plunge.

OOOO

Val had had no choice in who her sister was stolen by. No woman typically had a say in such matters. She herself had managed to steal Jarl before someone else could do the same to her. That had been foolish to think that such a fate could be avoided though. Mance Rayder had become King-Beyond-The-Wall, and Val wound up bound just as tightly to him as Dalla. Things started slowly enough. Warring tribes coming together beneath his words, defiant rival kings falling to his sword. The Wildling would defend her pregnant sister to the bitter end, but what that end was exactly was the crux of the problem.

Any Wildlings who had lived west of the Haunted Forest had suffered one of three fates. Slaughtered like lambs, escorted to settle the lands guarded by the Watch at an immense cost, or driven to the Frostfangs where Mance's army coalesced. Val often wondered when the Order of the North, as they styled themselves, would deal the final blow. Word was that twenty-five ships from a port called Blackcrown sailed towards them. In addition to Bear Island's hundred strong fleet of longships there would certainly be a wholloping soon. Shivering in the darkness the beautiful woman leant against a rock of the deep valley which had been secured. Bruised eyes bespoke of a recently lost battle while the bandaged slash on her neck told of a barely escaped death.

Lucky. That was what the men called her after she escaped the ensuing fever. Jarl had not been nearly so lucky. Speared into the frozen earth by a Manderly knight's lance. The blood which trickled from his lips. How his eyes grew cooler than the winter which surrounded the Frostfangs. "Your lips tighten. Why child?" She spun to face an unwelcome sight. A pale witch from the heart of winter. They had ventured nearer to the Lands of Always Winter with every recent battle. No one truly lived within the inhospitable region, or at least no known peoples did. There was however a tribe of witches who lived within the outskirts. They stole Thenns every so often to keep their dismal numbers steady. Keeping to whatever horrors they were working at the moment while everyone else steered well clear.

"Will you call me a child, I wonder," Steel-blue eyes flashed dangerously, "When my dagger has carved your cunt out like a shellfish?" Hoping to intimidate the strange envoy Val used her height advantageously. Towering whilst glowering at the intruder. She was paler than snow. Her head lacked any hair whilst her body was crisscrossed with asymmetrical tattoos. No rhyme, pattern, or reason to the markings at all except to mutilate any former beauty to death.

"The Master of Glaciers sent me to summon you. He must convey important matters." Unnaturally black eyes flickered towards the fire. "Things that are not for the ears of others."

"I want no part in-." Val began until two more figures appeared from the shadows. She realized her mistake. They had lured her away from the party of drunken Free Folk. Now a dear price would have to be paid.

"You have no choice in the matter," A hiss marked this declaration, as red powder was blown into her startled face. Sleep followed soon after. For what could have only been several hours Val was stuck in her own mind. Unable to fight back, or summon any help.

Carried off to dangerous lands explored only by the insane and the damned.

OOOO

Robb sat within the fine armchair of his chambers. Fire roaring in the hearth behind him illuminating the newest letters perfectly. Jon's letter was worn from annotations, the heir always made himself read them anyways, far too intrigued to let envy win. The Northern bastard had arrived to Qarth a month earlier and spoke of a daring notion indeed. With his small, yet fearsome, contingent of the Order of the Weirwood Jon was planning to venture to Sothoryos. The Lord was not inclined to disagree with his brother risking such a venture. Proudly, though jealously hidden within Robb's desk, were all of Jon's prior letters. If he were to be believed House Stark would soon have its very own Corlys Velaryon. An invaluable asset in forming far away trade alliances no Stark had ever before dreamed of.

He was pleased to have convinced his father to 'exile' Jon away on such grand undertakings. Upon returning from the Riverlands Robb had listened to his brother sigh incessantly about joining the Night's Watch. Undoubtedly due to some ill-conceived notion impressed upon him by the spiteful Lady of Winterfell. Now it seemed that Jon Snow was more than worthy of building a House for himself in the North, though the question was where. Already Robb plotted to surprise Arya with the fertile lands of Sea Dragon Point. She would be tasked with overseeing shipbuilding in the region to counteract the Dustin's westerly power. The move would also lend his youngest, sword-wielding sister much needed marriageability such as Sansa now possessed.

That left the lands of the Gift which grew thicker with Wildlings each passing day. A Stark would be needed soon enough to permanently oversee conflicts between the former Free Folk and House Bolton. Robb would convince his father to legitimize the bastard, have him wedded to either an Umber, Karstark, or Skaggosson, and title him Lord Protector of the lands of the New Gift. He knew his Lady mother would be outraged, so plans were already in order to someday grant Rickon the slowly developing fortress of Stoney Shore. Cley Cerwyn, serving as temporary Castellan as a favour to the House that wedded his sister off, had taken to calling it the Stoney Horn for the distinct shape of the rising walls. There Rickon would one day rule with his soon-to-be-betrothed, the three-year-old Osira Magnar. After he warded somewhere other than the North, of course.

Already Robb feared the battle that would ensue between himself and his mother at these ideas. They argued quite often nowadays as she increasingly attempted to undermine his ambitions. Growing weary at the conversations which needed to take place before his father left for King's Landing he stroked at the sleeping Direwolf in his arm. Frostfang had been a simple enough name to choose. After the mountains his new pet undoubtedly hailed from, as well as the mountains Robb often hoped the Order of the North would soon conquer. Rattling in his wrist were words from Shiera Seastar scrawled in her lovely script. Half-broken was the seal she had daringly chosen for herself. A mismatched dragon of green and blue wax.

' _My young Lord Stark,_

 _I fear I should not refer to you as such any longer. Already I hear what you have accomplished in my absence. How not only Winterfell's coffers, but those of your vassals as well, grow large enough to rival even King's Landing's wealth. It is my intention to travel North by ship for the King's visit to Winterfell. Not to witness his swine of a Grace totter about while those far cleverer than himself make the decisions. No, I must speak with you urgently. Meet my host in White Harbor within a week's time. Alone. A large party of Stark retainers would surely draw unwanted attention from Lord Manderly._

 _Lady Seastar, of Trident's Gate._

He wondered what such words entailed whilst settling Frostfang upon the end of his large bed. Stripping down Robb Stark slipped beneath the silky, Essosi sheets whilst imagining how much more beautiful Lady Shiera could have grown in the past three years. Unaware of the tumultuous impact her visit would have upon the course of his life.

OOOO

It was late. Though Sansa did not care much for the ticking of her hourglass which was filled with ruby sands from Essos. No matter how heavy her eyelids grew the girl intended to stay awake until her goal was accomplished. "Prick of the thumb," She punctured the soft flesh for what was certainly the hundredth time. "Lock of maiden's hair," Another small snippet of red was sliced into the wooden bowl. "Sweat from the brow," A swipe of her shiny forehead's perspirants were flicked expertly downwards. "Virgin whore's tears," The precious vial was tipped atop the concoction. Setting it aside Sansa Stark reached for the odd ingredient. Cinnamon, milk, and red rose petals as always. A candle was tipped after some hard liquor from her personal stores of Harrenhal had been sprinkled atop the concoction.

Flames billowed gutteringly from within the charred bowl prior to dying down when she lifted her pestle into the air. The atmosphere of her chambers seemed to grow heavier. Colder as well. Sansa smiled while adjusting her cloak so that it guarded against the sudden, yet very welcome, chill. With those long fingers she elegantly picked up a second bowl containing a viscous blue liquid. Wasting no time the girl mixed the contents together prior to slipping across the room. Smiling down at where the Direwolves rested on the bed of rich, Myrish silks. First was her true companion, the delicate little wolf with bright eyes. Trustingly the second smallest of the litter began to lap neatly at the concoction. As her feast became more feverish the reluctant, albino runt joined her.

"You were not meant for me, not at all," Sansa Stark stroked fondly at the runt's pearly coat, "But I need you more than Jon Snow ever did." Blue eyes glanced out the window to where the Northern lands stretched for many miles. "Phantom. Dream." She whispered, "Those will be your names." Young, inexperienced, and unschooled as she was the Red Rose of Winterfell failed to notice the hearth behind her. How within the flames twisted an unidentifiable form. Forces still yet beyond her awareness or control hungrily observed such early experimentations with sorcery.

The Three-Eyed Raven wondered how his former lover would respond to her champion having embraced his gifts with so decided a response.

OOOO

Next Chapter: Not Just a Cock with a Title (Part Two).


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: Not Just a Cock with a Title (Part Two).

Disclaimer: I own none of the materials written by George R. R. Martin, or HBO, or his publishing company.

OOOO

Theon Greyjoy had learnt much about himself in the prior three years. With help from Andarra's not-so-subtle critiques of course. Despite his initial resistance to the former courtesan's interference so much good had come from it. She wormed her way into his bed, him being little more than a hostage man-child, and broke him. Without much ado Andarra had rebuilt him into something he could find happiness with. 'Your position is what you make of it,' His only consistent lover had said, 'If you are unhappy, fight for what you want.' So he had.

Instead of whoring, drinking, or trying to fight the enigmatic influence Andarra suddenly wielded over his life, Theon instead focused on the future. He did not fret about a father who had not bothered to write him any letters in a decade. Of the mother they whispered had gone half-insane. Nor of the sister widely rumoured to be pirating as a Sell Sail in Essos. No. The Greyjoy heir focused on learning to accept that he would never be a full-blooded Iron Islander like his forefathers. Of course being a Greenlander was not as bad a thing as his brash kin made it out to be.

At Andarra's recommendation they both began to read of the Greyjoy history utilizing Winterfell's library. The Starks had waged many vicious wars with the Ironmen which meant their records were quite comprehensive. He was encouraged to truly analyze the 'great' Lords of Pyke. What he discovered had been that Dalton Greyjoy, a glorious hero of the Iron Islands, amounted to nothing more than a destructive little menace. Contrariwise, Theon's own grandfather Lord Quellon was astonishingly wise. Any major accomplishments had been wiped cleanly away by his father, however, with the ill-fated Greyjoy Rebellion. All of these forays into history simply enlightened Theon to the fact that he wished to be more than a warmongering bastard. Still, King Harmund Hoare's miserable tale taught him that that would not be accomplished by attacking the culture of the Ironmen. No, any change would need to be built off of familiar territory.

The Iron Islands was more than reaving pirates. There were peasants who toiled endlessly upon barren lands whilst their Lords refused to Reap or Sow. Thousands of unofficial thralls from all over the known world suffered even worse fates. He now felt an obligation to bring such stability as he had seen on the continent back to those poor souls. Years of watching the Starks build a grand empire of wealth left him feeling hungry for something other than the Iron Price as well. Constructing such splendorous permanence occupied Theon Greyjoy's thoughts ceaselessly. Often he dreamt of ways to leave a positive mark upon the islands he had not seen for so many years.

Unsurprisingly the first plan to roil through his mind had regarded the matter of reaving. The most successful rulers of Pyke had been men who limited the wildness of their vassals. Of course, such changes never permeated long enough to make any difference before the new Lord reversed all such decisions. Theon could recognize that the entire aristocracy needed to be influenced towards agreeing with such a proposition. Of course, that could never have happened without a significant amount of influence on his part. Influence he entirely lacked given his removal from Pyke. So he and Andarra set about fixing his image the best they could whilst respecting the fact that he was a hostage of House Stark.

First he had exploited his friendship with Robb Stark as much as was possible. The heir of House Stark had gained much favour with his father since Ladies Sansa and Sheira left for the Riverlands. Robb began to assume more influence through successful economic ventures until finally he was trusted enough by Ned Stark to propose a risky idea. Under a heavy Stark garrison Theon was sent north of Winterfell to the border of the New Gift and the Old. Several leagues to the north was the suddenly booming settlement of Queenscrown whilst Last Hearth sat far away in the south-west. He was to build a castle here. One that could house Jon Snow when he returned to Westeros, presumably, a very wealthy man.

Independence came as slowly as construction did. In a clever move he summoned several contingents of Wildlings from Queenscrown to assist in construction. Along with a quarter of their coveted mammoths. In only half-a-year Theon found himself the Castellan of a nearly completed keep. As more of the hundred-something-thousand Wildlings still alive Beyond-the-Wall matriculated through to vassalship he was in a stronger position than ever before. Beneath Theon's directions many of the Wildlings were distributed along the eastern side of the New Gift where they produced many goods easily traded by the new class of Skaggosson merchants. To the east were mountains which had long ago belonged to several of the Mountain Clans before Alysanne Targaryen's forcible redistribution.

With the intention of currying favour from the strongest of the Clans Theon returned these lands to their former holders. Houses Norrey and Flint began to repopulate with a fervor. Sending many of their men and the Valemen immigrants to prospect the unexplored, expansive territory. Quite recently both Houses had uncovered very rich deposits of silver and gold. Nowhere near what was contained in Casterly Rock though still enough that he would soon need to inform Robb. Such wealth that had already been extracted that Winterfell could feed the entire North through winter twice on taxes and rationed imports alone. Furthermore, such a revelation would only stoke the tempestuous fury of House Wull to even greater heights. Especially with both Lords Norrey and Flint planning to build castles as grand as any on the western seaboard of the North.

Beloved as the Greyjoy heir had become by the Wildlings and Mountain Clans he was decidedly disliked by his southerly neighbors. Last Hearth had barred any trade from Mammoth's Den, the name for his keep built alongside the King's Road. They detested a Greyjoy having any power in the North even though he was more a Northman than an Ironborn. Then there were the Boltons and Karstarks who often sent threatening, concerning letters regarding the Wildlings who pressed closer to their lands with each passing day. Of course this meant that Theon was forced to keep an absolute grip over his Wildling population. Any rambunctious behavior had the makings to cause a decided rebellion against House Stark. Right after the keep was completed he had ordered the overwhelmed Night's Watch to send three-quarters of their many hostages to his ever-growing keep.

With so much influence to his name the Greyjoy began the tricky task of corresponding with his uncle, Harlas Harlaw. The Reader was an intelligent man, with a powerful House, and a strong keep. If Theon wished to truly change the Iron Islands one day he would need support from such a close relative. In little time he began to communicate with his mother once again. Some of the letters were comprehensible, others absolute gibberish, and some still a painful mixture of both. Using this newly reforged connection he asked for her to send a Priest of the Drowned God so he could become reacquainted with the Ironmen culture. Much to his immense displeasure the deranged Lady of Pyke had taken it upon herself to personally send Aeron 'Damphair' Greyjoy.

Andarra convinced him to embrace the Drowned Priest's presence. He was, after all, a massively influential member of the Drowned Faith. Where the Harlaws had betrayed through many correspondences their admiration for Theon's sister Asha here was a prominent Greyjoy who, for religious purposes, would only support him. Though the pious zealot was tedious to deal with Theon fought tooth-and-nail to earn his favour. Beside the sprawling Weirwood of Mammoth's Den he constructed the first temple devoted to the Drowned God on Westeros since Harrenhal was destroyed. Within the pools of saltwater kept in this temple he eventually allowed his uncle to resurrect him from drowning.

Damphair wasted no time fleeing back to the Iron Islands almost a year later to preach of Theon Greyjoy's continued devotion to the Drowned God. Furthermore, he spoke of the grand, wealthy keep his nephew had constructed in a 'fortnight'. Theon's relief at being alone in his home once more was short lived, for at Aeron's manipulation five wards arrived from five Iron Islander Lords. Dorren Drumm, youngest son of Lord Drumm, and Joron Blacktyde, heir of House Blacktyde were the most prominent. Teenaged Sam Codd came from a truly detested, ill-reputed House. Though swords were swords, Theon rationalized, and the Codds could easily be persuaded to support him with a bit of kindness shown to their heir. Much further below in stature was the eldest son of Netley, far too new a House to possess any repute, and the fourth son of the Lord of the Lonely Light.

With Lord Stark's permission he allowed them into the North as wards. Finally feeling some sort of support to his claim Theon allowed himself to plot the days away. His study was devoted to research into the economic structure of the Iron Islands. Each of the five wards came from every corner of his father's domain and proved incredibly useful wells of information as well. He had also noticed that Andarra was formulating her own plots though they consisted of unintelligible jumbles when he was graceless enough to snoop. Clearly she was thinking of something ambitious, but he had little idea what that was. Many days passed the couple by as they both grew stronger with each moment in the other's company.

Late in the evening three years later Theon awoke in a sweaty jumble of limbs. Beside him lay Andarra, as beautiful as ever. At their feet was curled a handsome, muscular, and completely naked Wildling lad. Often Andarra and he would spice up their sexual relations by engaging in risque activities. They would pursue men and women who appealed to them only to encourage them into their shared bed. The now twenty-two-year-old Greyjoy had been eyeing his newest, comeliest stablehand for many moons now. At loud knocking he stretched himself upright. With a lechery smack on the younger man's rear he bade him to hide behind Andarra's changing screen.

Pulling a robe on whilst waiting for his lover to dress herself he opened the door to reveal a concerned-looking Sam Codd. At barely eighteen name days he was certainly the eldest of Theon's wards. The handsomest of them all as well. Inky black hair that carried the smell of salt from much time spent in the temple's waters, bulging muscles, as well as a striking scar across his right cheek from an old skirmish with brigands. The Greyjoy heir had every intention of luring the Codd heir into his bed before he was called back to the Iron Islands. "My Lord," He was red-faced and stunk of alcohol. Theon noted how his jerkin looked to have been hastily thrown on. Presumably the young Lord had been taking his pleasure with one of the virginal serving wenches again when important news reached his ear. "The Order of the North has sent a large party of men towards Mammoth's Den. They are asking for your permission to pass on towards Winterfell."

Without waiting Theon followed the tipsy young man through the stone keep. Clutching at his arm was Andarra who had pulled on the silky sleeping gown he bought as a gift for her last Name Day. She was beautiful. Within him the courtesan had awoken so many fervent lusts he hardly could have dreamt of. Deep in his heart the Greyjoy heir already knew that Andarra would one day be a Greyjoy. Despite her humble origins the Lysene would be his Rock Wife. The three of them slipped through the castle. Honestly, however, it was actually more of a collection of interconnected towers. In the likeness of his faint memories of Pyke Theon had tried to replicate his home. Behind a towering curtain wall stood three completed towers, only two were connected with a strong bridge that swayed over the ground below. Two more towers had only partially completed and were hardly sturdy enough to be safely inhabited.

Beyond the walls a large Wildling settlement had begun to thrive as the conniving people grew more involved with trade. Many of them had carted their most luxurious possessions passed the Wall. Now they were growing into a true merchant class profiting from being located on such an opportunity-laden region. Already the more successful of this merchant class were banding together the funds to finish building a sturdy, second outerwall. This all being in accordance with the constant threat of an attack by the Boltons and Karstarks. Eventually they arrived outside of the thriving town to where what looked like an army waited. Bound in very thick chains, attached to herds of mammoths and soldiers were nine giants. Arguing ferociously with his other wards was Rickard Ryswell. His brother had died in a Wildling raid two years earlier.

Since then Rickard had become second only to Marlon Manderly, as well as a notoriously violent fighter. "I have orders to pass on to Winterfell. From Robb Stark himself, Ironborn scum!" He spat nastily at the Blacktyde heir. Theon interjected just before a fistfight broke loose.

"Escort them to their rooms for the rest of the evening," He felt fury scorch in his veins. None of the Ironborn lads seemed quite as interested in mending their poor reputation as he did. "For arguing with the second-in-command of the Order of the North." They were taken away leaving him to exchange strained pleasantries with the Ryswell Lord. "Why was I not sent at least a warning raven of this party marching through our lands? What if these giants were harmful and managed to break-."

"They have surrendered," Rickard Ryswell bit back, "There are three more at the Wall. Those were too dangerous to let pass. Far larger than any giants I have even seen before." He looked ashen-faced, quite weary. "More troubling are the sixteen Skin Changers that were accompanying them. I had to have them locked in encased cages of steel." Theon remembered how the first Wildlings to surrender had been brought to Winterfell to bend the knee for House Stark. Then there was also the fact that Robb had been secretly planning to build two new keeps in the North as well. He had all but proclaimed as much during the last visit to Mammoth's Den. Certainly these Giants could help expedite such a process rapidly.

"Take as many of my Wildling soldiers as you need. It would not do for the Boltons or Karstarks to lose their rage at this turn of events. For they certainly will attack your ranks if they can get away with it." Theon was well aware of his opponent's tactics. Posing as brigands, sending raids into the New Gift at night to terrorize Wildlings into violence. Fortunately, at the least, most Wildling women could fight as well as their menfolk. They waited just long enough to send many a cockless Bolton back to the Dreadfort. "You can take the lot of them, all two-thousand men if needed," He professed earnestly, "The women will be just as capable of dealing with any trouble." This was an important task after all. Robb had many conflicts he would have to deal with alone while his father was gone. With those giants though the Starks would soon have greater influence over any westerly threats. Theon's generosity was not entirely selfless, as it meant a continuous pressure could be placed on Roose Bolton's tedious alliance by Winterfell.

"Thankfully," Rickard Ryswell responded while improperly eyeing Andarra who stood at Theon's side, "I will not have to deal with the politics of battle for much longer." At the Greyjoy's surprised expression he emitted a strained, frosty smile. "I am resigning from the Order to go home. To wait out this fucking winter, and whatever remains of that demon Mance Rayder's army. Only then will I ever consider trying to settle the Old Gift."

"You are resigning your post?" The Lyseni woman stood tall independently of Theon's side. She often saved her cleverness for more advantageous moments. "Do you not think that the Order of the North can defeat Mance Rayder?"

Roger Ryswell eyed her hungrily prior to sending the men behind him further back to begin the process of incorporating Mammoth Den's Wildling soldiers. "Aye, my Lady, I do not. In my last fortnight Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder went berserk. Sacrificed five-thousand of his last thirty-thousand men to our incursion to the Frostfangs." A dark pause. "The bastard circled around to harry us all the way back to the Wall. We lost three-thousand men and half of our territory to his psychotic tactics."

"Five-thousand men? Sacrificed?" Andarra reached back to squeeze her lover's arm so he would stay quiet. Theon did not argue with her, for she was quite capable without any interference. "Why would a man, a King, do that to his own people?"

"The most recent batch of Wildlings to come through, that were with this lot," He jerked his head back towards the giants, "Claimed that Mance Rayder's goodsister, who was raising his son since her sister passed in childbirth, was abducted. Apparently the King-Beyond-The-Wall went fucking insane after. Half his generals were executed for conspiracy, his babe's wet nurse was relieved of her tits before being exiled, and anyone who argued was forced into the little decoy of Wildlings we pulverized." Rickard Ryswell spat on the ground. "Either way, evil shit is afoot up there. I am going to learn from my brother's mistake before I wind up dead too." With that he marched away to presumably assist with the settling of so many new soldiers.

Theon took Andarra on his arm again whilst Sam Codd followed closely behind them both. "A man who is willing to sacrifice so many," She hissed at him, "Either he will be turned on by his people, or we do not stand a chance against such ruthlessness. I cannot decide."

"Let us hope that the Order recovers Mance Rayder's precious Princess. She sounds like the hostage to end all hostages," Theon murmured back as they marched through the cold to make up for lots of lost sleep.

OOOO

Robb Stark found himself in a shady little inn on the outskirts of White Harbor. Wondering how Shiera Seastar still managed to keep him so tightly wound about her finger even after all their time apart. He should have refused to leave Winterfell in the first place. Such an encounter was undeniably treasonous given the suspicious manner of her note as well as the recent events in King's Landing. Despite that the man arrived in the specified tavern. Whilst his small entourage of guards hid beyond in the Hornwood lands Robb sat himself down at an empty table in the corner. Only three days earlier had a note from a mute messenger bearing Lady Seastar's colours intercepted him on the way to White Harbor. In his possession had been a litany of strict rules to follow.

Now here he was watching the squire of a hedge knight flirt hopelessly with some blushing serving wench. Rolling both eyes the heir of Winterfell waited until a thin man with a quivering chin approached. "Follow me, young Lord," He whispered, "She awaits." Beginning to grow anxious Robb followed the slender fellow upstairs to what was, presumably, the largest set of chambers offered by the ramshackle tavern. With a mild knock that intimidatingly lovely voice called out for him to enter.

Enter Robb Stark did. The sight was pure ecstasy constrained to the human form. Seated before a round table bearing cyvasse pieces was Shiera Seastar. The open window allowed a sea breeze to blow through, batting playfully at silver locks. A pretty, loose lilac dress billowed about her sumptuous frame. So different from the provocative, though still tasteful, gowns she used to wear to diplomatic matters. "Robb Stark," She slipped to a standing position, he noticed that both of her feet were bare. Dancing across the carpet Lady Shiera stopped with only an improper distance between them. Hands reached up to stroke at the beard which now hung from his nineteen-year-old face. "Fetch me a shaving bowl and a straight razor, Timmon," She called out loudly.

In a shocking turn of events Robb found himself seated near the window whilst Shiera clucked disapprovingly at each tuft of black hair. "Filthy things, beards are," She hummed almost hypnotically in his ear, "I will not abide one on a person so precious to me." Whatever was going on had left the Stark heir with a massive crick in his neck. Where was the Shiera Targaryen of old? The one who trained him in the elementary principles of manipulation? Who had turned Sansa into a woman capable of bartering with Tywin Lannister? He could still sense her there, however, in how easily she barred his face with the razor. Cool, calm, haughty, and extremely talented. Though now there was an almost summery exuberance to her person.

Soon enough he felt her wipe at his face with a soft linen prior to being released. Spinning away she slipped back into her spot at the cyvasse table. Patting disbelievingly at the smoothe skin left behind by her ministrations he followed suit by sitting across from her. Only Shiera could take away something he had been so proud of without a word of protest crossing his lips. Three years ago Robb would not have been able to guess at her intentions. Now was a different story. Without invitation he snatched a dragon from the table by moving one of the trebuchets. "You have learnt to play cyvasse since we last met?" She smiled alluringly.

"Aye," He stared daringly at her, "I have learnt lots of things."

The genial pretense evaporated suddenly as she stared callously at him. "Tell me," Honey became steel, "Have you heard much of the south?"

"I know Jon Arryn was poisoned, that the Lannisters grow wealthier than ever before thanks to low taxes along the Sunset Canal, and that House Tyrell has become quite competitive with House Tully." He responded disinterestedly. "Sansa has our southerly interests handled. I have been focused on dealing with matters here."

"Effectively so, yes," She managed to remove three of his war elephants with a single dragon. All while remaining well clear of his trebuchet line. "But the North can only grow so much so soon. You are woefully ignorant of many happenings below the Neck. Things that pose a great threat to the North's continued prosperity." Mismatched eyes pointed at his own, "More importantly, matters that bode poorly for my own affairs." Without any pause she continued on. "The only people who hate me more than the Tyrells do at this moment are the Lannisters, and the Citadel. Tywin Lannister is presently placated with my humble levies placed on his merchant ships passing through Trident's Gate. The Citadel, however, fears me." A wicked grin revealed sparkling teeth. "For good reason of course, they assigned me a brutish warrior of a Maester. In the dead of night he slunk into my room to assassinate me."

"Why?!" Robb was horrified to learn such a thing.

"Their subservients in all but name, the Tyrells and Hightowers, have lost much fortune due to my position on the Sunset Canal. I have also blocked any attempts they have made to marry into the new Riverine cities with no small amount of blackmail." Fingers clenched on her armrest. "The Citadel mostly detests the fact that a Targaryen, accordingly one of the most dangerous lost to history's pages, has become a central power once more. They despise magic. The vicious rumours which swirl about me, as well as the reminder I serve them of an occult lineage."

"What would you have me do?" Robb sighed forlornly. "I hold no power in the south. You have more influence there than I do."

A swift movement on her part knocked over many of the pieces on the cyvasse table. It hardly mattered, for she had won the game already. "I will gift House Stark with a generous donation," Shiera Seastar gripped his hand tightly, so sensually in her own. "One that shall be used to construct a Northern Citadel. It is only fitting, as well as logical to place it here. You hold twice as much land as the Reach. The North is also far enough away from the influence of the Citadel that we can create a competing orbit."

"Building the home for such a thing is one matter." Robb pulled his hand back, "Actually constructing an order which will hold as successfully as the Citadel has is another entirely." Blue eyes peered out the window at the golden sunset which swirled over the Bite. "Where would we get such a library, or even find so many learned men to fill it?"

"I have many connections in Essos, as does Sansa. We can combine our resources, surely, to obtain an impressive library. Also, there are many learned men across the world who could be persuaded to join such an organization. Not only join, but to shape Westeros in such a powerful way? Supply will never be a problem."

"You will have it," Robb leant back, "The risk belongs to your coffers anyways." He stared speculatively at her in that following moment. "I doubt an army of celibate greybeards are truly the cause of all your troubles. It would be disappointing if such were the case."

Lips tightening she reached for a nearby goblet of wine. He did the same in response. "You must know that there is truth to the rumours surrounding me. Yes?"

"Of course, Lady Seastar," He murmured jestingly in response, "You were born one-hundred-eighty years after Aegon's Conquest. Yet here you sit before me looking as beautif-."

"Beyond your flattery," She stared sternly at him.

"I do," He answered simply enough. Almost reluctantly so. After hearing tales of skinchangers, witches, and giants arriving from Beyond-the-Wall how could he not believe the less outrageous things that were whispered of her.

"My dreams have an uncanny knack of coming true. When I have them, that is." The woman glanced at him before standing. With no warning at all she swept closely over to stand beside the heir of Winterfell. "Many nights ago I was haunted by a terrifying sight. A Crow hungering for someone precious to my heart. A Titan breathing as easily as a man might. A Lion breaking free of its tether. Darkness like nothing seen before." She unlaced the front of her pretty gown. Before he could protest it pooled the floor about her feet. For his hungry gaze was the nude splendor of her body. Breasts like melons perked tightly in the air. Childbearing hips spread enticingly down towards a squeezable bottom. In a fell swoop she straddled his left thigh whilst emitting a pleasured gasp. "The Wolf," Shiera Seastar whispered into his ear, "Will help the Dragon birth the Beauty of the Bleeding Star." Fingers splayed across his cheeks as she leant in to kiss him. What followed was a heavy tangling of tongues. Thick, hot, messy, and oh-so incredibly erotic.

Robb was far less experienced than her, unsurprisingly, finding himself forced to break away first. Panting for breath he fought the urge to reach for the first pair of breasts to have ever been dangled so tauntingly in his handsome face. "I will not fuck you Lady Seastar," He moaned sorrowfully, "Not like this. Not in some ramshackle inn."

"Of course not, Lord Stark," Her talented tongue doubtlessly was in the process of leaving love bites on his neck. " _The mating will precede nine knives of iron, sealed with the blood of trees."_ He was pressed back suddenly by the neck, forced to watch as she started to heave violently atop his thigh with a hand pressed against her shaven, slickened sex. Without much protest Robb observed as she forcibly took her pleasure from him. Gasping loudly she collapsed against his muscular form in a panting, gorgeous mess. Looking quite like the moon had grown tits and legs.

"You have grown handsome, my lad," She stood in a wobbly manner, "Clever enough as well. Much to my pleasure." A wink caused the virginal Lord to blush embarrassedly. He was tugged upwards by the hand. With little protest he found himself stripped down to nothing. "Though this big, thick cock," Lady Shiera guided him backwards towards her bed of woolen sheets, "Will not enter my tight, swollen cunt for some time yet." He lay there, propped on both elbows as she stood above him. Then with a mischievous grin the Great Bastard sunk down to her knees. Robb learnt in that moment, or imagined he did at least, why so many of Shiera Seastar's former lovers committed suicide after being spurned.

He learnt then what it was like to be kissed by the moon.

OOOO

 **Two Weeks Later**

The King's party was only a week away from Winterfell. Catelyn should have been preparing, but she needed a break from such trying matters. Even despite her guilt at lazing about for an hour or two whilst Sansa's troupe of Ladies-in-Waiting, Arya's having left for their respective roles already, worked tirelessly. Leaning against the battlement wall Catelyn peered out over Wintertown. Everything above the earth had grown grander with much trade having erupted around the North's most central point. The proximity of the White Knife had also helped such a development as well. Truthfully, Wintertown's above ground growth paled in comparison to below. Far beneath her feet sprawled a large marketplace, many storehouses, a brothel, more homes, and even a very important recent discovery.

Obsidian and diamonds had been found deep beneath the lands surrounding Winterfell. Only a little further out than Wintertown at most did their luck extend it seemed, however. Sharper than steel, obsidian was, and valuable too despite its fragility. Three-quarters of the newly forged weapons were stored in Winterfell's booming armory whilst the remainder was traded solely to Lys. Where Drazenko Rogare was fitting his growing, personal army for rising tensions. The diamonds were much less valuable, of course. Not specially coloured or desireable as other gems. Still, Catelyn much appreciated that something so beautiful could have been hidden beneath Winterfell for so long. Rickon's tunics were all now embroidered with the stones while the Direwolves wore collars of them. Even now she was preparing something special for her daughters with the help of her Lyseni seamstresses and the underappreciated gems.

"Good morning, mother," Sansa approached as quietly as a huntress, at either side of her were the growing Direwolves. They had been trained with strict compassion by their mistress, and it surely showed. Both of the beasts strayed no further than an arms length away. Dream nuzzled uninvited against Catelyn's gown whilst Phantom remained close by Sansa's side. "What do you think of such wastefulness of resources for a king who struts about Kings Landing in piss-stained breeches?"

"Sansa! Do not whisper such treason. Especially not with our current company!" Many Northern Lords had been invited to the spledorful event. Some of them were not near so friendly to House Stark as would have been preferred.

"I fear not, mother, nor should you," The young beauty smiled genially in response. "What Lords are not loyal have not benefited from our new economic policies. They have grown no stronger than before, whilst those that still remain loyal to us are twice as prosperous." Eyes bluer than the Narrow Sea glimmered at her. "Besides, this resistance staged by the Boltons could easily be crushed by wedding Alys Karstark to our dear Robb." She turned to glance at something in the surging town. "Of course, that may not be a given for much longer."

The Lady of Stark glanced at what her daughter referenced. Deep in the manse of bustling people walked Lady Seastar alongside Cat's firstborn. He had disappeared two weeks earlier on some unspoken mission. Only to return up along the White Knife with the Great Bastard's impressive retinue at hand. They were close. Closer than ever before. "How powerful exactly is your former governess? What of Trident's Gate?"

"She is certainly a better catch than Alys Karstark. Beneath her watch Trident's Gate has been transformed into a truly marvelous structure. Two massive walls of stone circle her position on the confluence. A canal of epic proportions allows merchants on either side of the Trident to pass through the city. Within the second set of walls rests her fortified palace of marble." Sansa nodded mischievously to herself, "They are calling it the newest wonder of Westeros."

Resting both palms on the battlement walls she glanced away from her mother. "Lady Shiera is second only to the Tullys. Nipping closely at her heels are the Freys. They have only grown more prominent thanks to the Neck's strong economy, as well as the merchant's galleys which now travel along the Trident. Houses Cox, Hawick, and even Shawney have become her vassals."

"Robb should wed one of the daughters of our unsettled Bannermen," Catelyn frowned.

"Yes. He _should_ ," Sansa affirmed.

"Though wedding him to Lady Seastar is truly advantageous. After all she has done for us." Catelyn was speaking to herself now. "Not to mention that it would lend her much strength in tiding the growing power of House Frey."

"It is not my place to affirm or disagree with such sentiment mother," Sansa answered in response. "Though I can say that marrying Robb to Lady Shiera will lend not only the Starks much influence, but it would perpetuate the rising stability of House Tully as well." She reached over to link arms with her mother. Both of them standing in solidarity with contemplations for the future.

OOOO

Robb had found himself in many uncomfortable situations since Lady Seastar had first returned to the North. There had been their many fevered nights of passion together. Her inviting him into her chambers for more of the same treatment he had received in White Harbor. Marked by that point in the early dawn where he was forced to flee from approaching serving wenches. Then only a week earlier did Shiera bid him to begin returning the same favour. Nowhere was he safe from the blossoming, torrid romance. His study, their chambers, the libraries, and even within the stables during one particularly desperate moment. Only compounding these matters further was that they could not partake in what their bodies truly desired. The actual act itself.

'Not until the knives of iron are within my sight, and we have wedded, my love,' She had chidingly groped him after. Now here the pair of them walked through the bustling tunnels beneath Wintertown. Only three guards escorted them though not for long it seemed. "Visit your favourites," Lady Shiera smiled generously at them all, "At mine own expense." The three men clad in the mismatched dragon of Trident's Gate wasted no time at all entering the underground brothel. With a gentle tug of his sleeve the beautiful Targaryen tugged him along after them all.

Carnality ensued all around the pair though she clearly did not have much interest in it. Further back into the establishment was he pulled until they entered the proprietor's offices. "Wha' interest cou' a Stark 'ave in my business? Especially after all those years you lot ignored me girls," The Madam huffed heatedly at the sight of him.

"We wish to implement a reform starting here at Winterfell," Shiera had slipped into the seat across from the ragged desk in response. Robb followed suit, eager to hide his uncontainable erection. "Northern whores are of an abborhently lower quality than even south of the Neck, let alone Essos. They grow haggard quickly, squeal in the wrong places, and bring in such low profits that Winterfell could never dare to tax them. Such a move would be akin to outlawing the practice entirely."

"What would y' 'ave me do, milady?" Asked the woman in a now intrigued manner. All of her trivial anger from before had disappeared now. "Quality wares 'ome through me doors, 'ut they never las' long!"

"Lord Robb," She gripped his thigh out of sight of the Madam's beady eyes, "Will persuade Maester Luwin to begin seeing your wares every fortnight. Their collective health will surely increase dramatically. That being said, you will retire those that have already grown undesirable. Encourage them to visit Lady Arya at Winterfell for grander employment opportunities." Mismatched eyes gleamed, "Then I will lend you the services of a Volantene courtesan whom I purchased the freedom of. She will train your whores on the proper art of squealing, so long as you treat her well. If the King's men are sufficiently satisfied we will seek to invest in the expansion of your business."

"Lord Stark barely let's us 'perate 'ere as is! 'Ow 'ill 'is cubs persuade 'im otherwise?"

"This will be good for the health of the whores in Wintertown. They will no longer be forced to suffer, and Winterfell will bring in far more taxes for the trouble," Robb retorted sharply. "My father will see reason."

"Begin clearing out your least profitable wares this evening. Recruit new whores immediately," Shiera stood. He followed, "My courtesan has been charged with distributing our first investment towards better decor. Maester Luwin shall visit on the 'morrow." Without another word the woman swept from the room. Robb followed whilst trying not to eye the dozens of pretty maids sweeping about in states of undress. Soon enough he stepped outside only for Shiera to beckon him into the dark shadows surrounding. "Did you like looking at those bouncing whores, my Lord?" She asked whilst reaching down to loosen his breeches.

"Yes," He gasped lowly while worrying that a passerby might happen upon their crevice in the tunnels.

"You have no idea of true pleasure, Robb Stark. None at all." Her dress was easily loosened to reveal those glorious breasts. "In Oldtown, Kings Landing, Lannisport, Seagard, Trident's Gate, and Sunspear they cater to every desire. Virgins, lactating mothers, comely young lads, muscular men, women who can make men erupt with a single touch." She began to stroke him with her soft hands. "The North is far too repressed. I imagine that once we are through with every brothel from the Neck to the Wall you Northmen will become much less aggressive." She withdrew, starting to lace herself up without helping him finish.

"You pretend that you are free of such desires," Robb growled throatily, pressing her back further as he swiftly raised her skirts. "But that must be a lie from one who knows so much of brothels." With little pause he moved beneath. Shiera Seastar's thighs pressed tightly around the young Lord's head as he lapped dutifully at her core of pleasure. Each nip of creamy flesh prompted her mighty bust to smack freely against the loosened laces of the bodice. After all was said and done Robb escaped from beneath her skirts to find a most incredible of sights. The Lady of Trident's Gate glowed from the intensity of her orgasm. Breasts all but free as the laces tightened around the swell of her perky nipples. "I love you, Robb Stark," The beauty yawned tiredly while moving to stand.

Fingers tightening in his black locks as she lifted him into the most passionate kiss they had ever shared.

OOOO

"I need you to do something for me, sister." Robb Stark announced as he strode into Arya's solars unannounced.

"What?" The Lady asked blearily at him. She had been looking at notes from Deepwood Motte where men were starting to construct a keep at Sea Dragon Point. Behind her head the moon rose high in the sky.

"I need you to send several of your prettiest Blue Roses to become whores at the Wintertown brothel as soon as possible." Tully-blue eyes glittered cunningly while he sat down across from her. "Ones with Northern loyalty deeply sunken into their bones."

OOOO


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten: Making the Most of a Horrible Thing.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

They stood together in a long line. Eddard Stark next to his wife, Robb next to his mother with Shiera Seastar pressed at his side, then Sansa with her Ladies-in-Waiting lined neatly behind her. At the very end of the line stood Arya who kept a guiding grip on little Rickon's rambunctious shoulder. Behind them all was the entire household of Winterfell in neat columns. Outside of the walls the several thousand citizens of Wintertown were doubtlessly lined up to wave at the Royal Procession.

Arya often admired the new opulence of the North. So much wealth had flowed into the kingdom that even her father's frugal-mindedness could not hold out entirely. They all still worked tirelessly to prepare for the coming winter. Whatever wealth was produced mostly went towards preservation of food, and more storehouses. Four small fortresses had been built in each of the four regions of the North. In each were the centralized food storages contributed to by each of the Stark bannermen. With such effective organization and combined effort for collective survival it meant that more focus could be placed on other matters. This was the point where Arya watched her mother shine like never before.

With her background in ruling a wealthy, southerly keep the Lady of Winterfell managed to shape their large, but formerly poor, home into something splendid. Rich furnishings from Essos now covered every inch of the interior replacing the ancient, worn hand-me-downs from past generations. Fork tongued banners embroidered with diamonds waved majestically from every crowning point of Winterfell. Even on sunless days the sight was far from unimpressive. Outside the city of several-thousand her father had ordered the construction of another wall to protect against recent strikes by brigands in the night. Her mother took charge of the architectural designs though. Set between squat, yet picturesque, stone watchtowers rose higher with each day a luxurious, formidable gatehouse which would no doubt be gifted to the Pooles or Cassels.

That was certainly not the end of it though. Any old furniture had not been simply disposed of. Instead the clean, yet sparse, First Keep was filled up again in a way it had not been for centuries. This was quite important given that the Starks now needed much more space for the many important guests who often visited their home. Far below their feet upkeep of the Crypts of Winterfell had been assigned to a contingent of new servants. Many more of the tombs of her ancestors now glittered as brightly in the torchlight as when they were first installed. In addition to the lavish preparations for the King's visit Winterfell glittered more brightly than ever before. "Rickon," She hissed down at the squirming boy, "You must remain presentable."

"I want Shaggydog!" He pouted. Across from them stood many of the Northern Lords in attendance. Few passed up the opportunity to visit Winterfell now that it was truly the capital of the North's power. Fewer still would have refrained from schmoozing with the south's most powerful. The Umbers, Mountain Lords, excepting Wull, Hornwoods, Magnars, Manderlys, Cerwyns, and Dustins had all sent at least one envoy. Surprisingly enough Roose Bolton had sent his bastard, Ramsay Snow to represent his interests. Behind them in just as orderly columns were there many retainers. All of whom were surely taking notice of the youngest Stark's poor behavior.

"You will be Lord of the Stoney Horn one day, Rickon," Arya tilted his red face towards her own. "Your reputation will not only be important to your own credibility with the powerful men surrounding us, but to your wife and children as well. Do you truly wish to hurt the Lady Osiria's wellbeing?"

"No," The seven-year-old pouted. Twisting beneath her grip so he stood properly. Arya smiled whilst standing up. Rickon had gotten along quite well with little Osiria Magnar when they met the year prior. Already their parents were planning for a grand betrothal ceremony between the two children. She was lucky to have stood at that moment, for it appeared the royal family had arrived. Many knights, horses, retainers, pages, whores, serving wenches, and mummers filled the courtyard of Winterfell. A large carriage rattled across the cobblestones prior to coming to a halt. From a horse at the front plopped the King. Even fatter than he had been at Riverrun three years ago.

"Ned," The man pulled a surprised-looking Ned into an embrace.

"Your grace," Arya's father clearly tried to hide his surprise at the repugnant sight of their King. They exchanged some banter while she observed the rest of the royal party. There was the Kingsguard, including Meryn Trant who glared with open malice at Robb. Word head travelled quickly throughout that Seven Kingdoms that her eldest brother was just as worthy a fighter as any Kingsguard after the duel at Riverrun three years earlier. She glanced upon Jaime Lannister who stared with his mocking gaze at Winterfell. The carriage opened as the Queen stepped out onto the cobbles of the courtyard. Arya noted that the beauty had only faded further with far more pronounced wrinkles. Behind her loomed the Crown Prince Joffrey. Why he was hiding in the carriage like a little boy Arya did not know.

While Queen Cersei deigned to greet with her father, Arya noted how lovely Myrcella was, as well as how awkward little Tommen looked. Joffrey was handsome, that much was undeniable. Though there seemed to be a sneer he was failing to hide as he regarded the many people before him. "Robb, my boy!" Robert crowed eagerly, "You have gotten strapping." Ignoring Lady Seastar he moved down, "Lady Stark. We passed by Harrenhal on our way North. I could hardly believe it with my own eyes!" Beside him Joffrey stared at Sansa as she dipped into a splendid curtsey. The look was hungry, greedy. Arya did not like the Crown Prince at all.

There came a pause, of course, before the twelve-year-old girl's life changed forever. "Lyanna?" The King whispered, staring at her with wide eyes and a bloodless face. Everyone grew silent, staring at her in a similar manner. The Queen's family, including herself, glowered murderously after the name was uttered, however. She should have anticipated such a reaction from the King. In past months seemingly the entire North had seen fit to proclaim the resemblance. That down to the way she rode horses the resemblance to Lyanna Stark was uncanny.

"Your grace," She dipped into a curtsy. Nowhere near as elegant as those of Shiera, Sansa, or Cersei, but surprisingly better than that of Princess Myrcella's. "We met three years ago at Riverrun. My name is Ary-."

"Of course," He appeared quite shaken, "I remember." Turning to her father he spoke firmly, "Let us visit your dead, Ned. I must pay my respects."

"Your grace," The Queen interrupted firmly, "We have been travelling for so long. Such a thing can surely wai-."

"Quiet, woman," He rudely interrupted yet again. "Ned. Lady Stark." The King addressed her father again, but included Sansa this time too, "Will you show me your crypts?" They were gone in moments. Lady Seastar moved forth, pulling Rickon gently away so that he was stood next to Robb instead.

"We must speak," The beauty whispered, tugging her from the courtyard. Uncertain, Arya followed without protest until they were deeply hidden away from any eavesdroppers. "You must assist me with something, Arya. Now is the time to prove yourself."

OOOO

Sansa was rattled, and very little ever seemed capable of rattling her any longer. She had only been invited to the Crypts as a courtesy due to the stature she made for herself. Yes, her father still had a legal say in who she was wedded to. The man was a fool though, but worse enough, he was a fool who had not seen the revitalization of Harrenhal, or the tons of food produced every month by the God's Eye's resurging population. The Stark beauty knew her worth even if every man in Westeros liked to diminish it to little more than a virgin cunt. "What is wrong my Lady," Sweet Jeyne asked concernedly. Wylla, likewise, rushed forth as soon as her mistress returned to the chambers. Syggi with all of her ambition and cunning had been wedded to the heir of Seagard a year earlier to forge a Northern tie with the increasingly powerful Mallisters.

"Leave me for now," Sansa gasped loudly, "Please." They stared concernedly until she snapped fiercely, "Instead of gawping at me like fish find Alta Butterwell. Where has that girl been all day?" At the heated command both women finally fled to do as bidden. Because her Direwolves were in the kennels for the day she found herself all alone. Pacing nervously the young woman felt her fingers shaking as she considered what had occurred in the Crypts. The King had indeed offered the Lord of Winterfell the position of Lord Hand. A post the man certainly could not refuse. He deserved it, Sansa decided, to be trapped in the place where his father and brother were murdered. For if she was to be stuck in King's Landing. To be forcibly betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon despite richer prospects across the Narrow Sea then her father would suffer as well.

Leaning against the desk she hissed furiously to herself. Trying to devise a way to weasel away from the arrangement without insulting the Crown. None came to mind that would prevent her reputation from becoming debased. "Sansa," Arya slipped into the chambers quickly, closing the doors behind her, "I eavesdropped on father talking to mother on my way back to the keep." Without much pause they both wound up entangled atop Sansa's silky bed covers. "How can father be so stupid?" The younger girl hissed coldly, "To let the King betroth you to that monster? I heard that just last year he-."

"Yes." Sansa could not speak of such things. Only nineteen-years-old the Crown Prince Joffrey was already developing a horrifying reputation. Tales leaked from King's Landing like blood from a wound. Of how he tortured animals during hunts, whores who serviced him disappeared, and even what occurred the prior year. She herself was no helpless maiden, and her talents grew in strength with each passing night of practice, though that would provide little protection. Even with all of the knowledge imparted upon her by Shiera nothing could much could be done to stop a man who would one day become King. Especially not when he was propped up by Tywin Lannister.

"We need Shiera's help," Arya spoke plainly, "We all must work hard in the coming months to wrest control of King's Landing from the Lannisters." It was no secret in the realm who held the power of King Robert. Especially now that Jon Arryn was dead. "That is the only way you can protect yourself when the crown rests upon your head." She squeezed her sister's trembling hands tightly together, lending Sansa enough control over her emotions to think again.

"They will never allow Shiera to enter King's Landing, let alone bring any forces into the city. We have grown far beyond her sphere of influence. I, however, can insist on bringing my own retinue to the capital from Harrenhal. Father must be persuaded to bring just as many of his own soldiers along. That is our only hope of matching the Gold Cloaks." Sansa rationalized, "I also must set about winning over members of the Small Council. Petyr Baelish can be manipulated, hopefully. Grand Maester Pycelle will need to be assassinated as soon as I am Queen."

"I will bring some of my Blue Roses south. Brother can construct the keep at Sea Dragon Point without me. One of the Mormont women will serve as Castellan and mind over the Order of the Rose. We will face King's Landing together, sister." Arya professed. Her eyes gleamed, "Bran will be squired to Ser Barristan. We can use him to deduce the loyalties of the white cloaks. Slowly pick off the ones in Lannister pockets." She hesitated, "Or, we could send him to squire for Renly Baratheon. That would provide us with another Small Council member-."

"No. Bran cannot have his reputation soiled by such a man for my sake. I will not have people mocking him like they do Loras Tyrell." Sansa shook her head. "How can we convince Ser Barristan to take on a squire?"

"I will handle that," Arya insisted firmly.

"'Tis funny sister," Sansa spoke somewhat dreamily in response, "That I always knew I would become a Queen. I merely believed it would be of the Rogare Bank. Not the Seven Kingdoms." They sat closer to one another at the grim remark.

OOOO

It had been the She-Wolf, the one that looked like Lyanna Stark, who caused Jaime to be banished outside. During a dance with the drunken slob of a King she had whispered to him. Almost immediately after, to his sweet sister's protest, was Jaime all-but ordered outside. 'The Starks are too honourable to suffer in the presence of an oathbreaker!' He bellowed with a red face. Prior to groping a serving maid in front of the most powerful Lords of the North whilst Arya Stark loped backwards victoriously.

As he stood beneath the swirling snows Jaime had to admit that he would have listened to the Stark girls if he were the King too. They had entered the Great Hall in ethereal, diamond-encrusted gowns. Pale skin glowing like the snows of these accursed lands he now found himself trapped upon. Surely every grandfather, father, and son in Westeros would soon be waging bloody wars for the hand of Arya Stark in betrothal. Especially now that the Lady Sansa was slated to become Queen someday. Puffing the cool air Jaime allowed himself to wander about. Tyrion had dropped off a bottle of Arbor Gold after having heard whisper of his exile. Carelessly, the Kingslayer sipped at it.

Until he dropped it in shock. Standing within the shadows of the courtyard was Shiera Seastar. Jaime remembered Rhaella Targaryen, but she had never been quite so tantalizing as this woman in front of him. Hissing at the cold he willingly accepted her invitation. While he would never betray Cersei with a meaningless infidelity even he could not help admiring the Lady of Trident's Gate. Furs were draped across her body in a sensuous manner. Those eyes summoned him with almost as great a pull as the Lordship at Casterly Rock did when he awoke each morning. Pausing the man stopped only a foot away from her. "Lady Sh-!" Beneath the swirling snows he felt as something heavy was slammed into the back of his head.

He woke in darkness except for the dimmest of lights which illuminated Lady Seastar's sinister features. "He is awake," She smiled wickedly, "Do as I have ordered." Two men, both burly with the marks of impoverished peasants, wasted no time at all. Without any hesitance they stripped him naked. Dragging his shaking body across the dank chamber to the wall where shiny shackles looked to have been recently installed. Writhing against the new bonds he watched the two oafs step back. "Aestle," She waved at the larger one, "Now do your part." 'Aestle' the peasant drew a dagger, gutting his comrade only seconds before slitting his own throat with the same blade. It clattered to the dirty floor where she dipped gracefully to retrieve it.

"Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?" Jaime snarled ferociously. "My sister will have you beheaded. My father will have each of his men line up to fuck you like a Tarbeck whore!"

"No," Shiera Seastar smiled, though it did not reach her mismatched gaze, "They will not. My time will come, yes. Sooner than I would like. Though in the end I will die for something larger than myself, or the petty vengeance of House Lannister." Fingers stroked his clean-shaven face gently until he attempted to bite at them. "A handsome specimen you are, yes. Worthy too. I surely hope you win over the Titan, but be warned that he shall have muscles as well." Her hand drifted then from his convulsing throat, down the soft golden hairs of his writhing torso. The muscles on every part of his naked body glittered appealingly beneath the warm torchlight. Instead of touching his firm manhood which pulsed due to the excitement of the moment she reached around.

Jaime grunted as the cold hands gripped possessively at his buttocks. "You will recognize her when you see her, Jaime Lannister," She smiled into his eyes, "Like no Beauty to have ever lived upon this continent before. Do not deny yourself the joy you shall feel, or you will lose her to the others. Do not betray her, for she is the only hope you will ever have of reclaiming Casterly Rock. Pledge to serve as her sworn shield. Reap the rewards."

"Don't do this!" He had never pleaded before. "I can't leave my sister, my children!"

"You would have died following Queen Cersei," The Great Bastard sighed sadly, "None of your children would have survived either way." With a swift movement he was cut by the bloody knife. "A blood sacrifice of two strong men," She leant forth suddenly pressing a hot kiss to his lips, "A kiss to seal the intention of the caster." Both of those eyes rolled upwards suddenly. Foreign words poured from the Targaryen Princess's throat. As he grew further into darkness only six words penetrated the coming of a very long sleep.

"The Beauty of the Red Comet."

OOOO

Sansa danced with the Lords of the North first. She knew that it would have been wisest to engage her soon-to-be-betrothed first so that his famed rage might be placated. Of course, the Stark girl was a politician first. Her sister, sweet Arya who had grown so strong, so wise, and was willing to sacrifice so much for Sansa's own safety, needed help. With great courtliness, grace, and skill she repaid the favour. Though her feet ached she kept the rising tide of admirers away from her sister until the girl's mission was accomplished. Even at only twelve name days Arya was captivating enough to surpass any of the beauties in the hall. Sansa herself was faced with the realization that her little sister was rapidly proving to be the fiercest competition at becoming the most beautiful woman in Westeros.

Throughout the week prior it seemed that their mother had covertly been hard at work with the Lyseni seamstresses and Alta Butterwell. The pretty little soubrette had been renowned across the God's Eye for her almost innate talents. Underneath Sansa's patronage her talents thrived wildly. Of course, the Lady of Harrenhal had cared very little for such things. Her fertile and expansive, despite having dwindled beneath lax Whent leadership, lands required tending to. The west was easily enough delegated to the loyal knights of House Wode. She elevated them to petty Lords while they proved effective administrators in turn. Eastwards, however, was not quite so easily handled. Only merchant's and farmer's sons she had recently invested in training as knights were available. Though their bloodlines were new, and the depth of their loyalties unproven.

Only after conferring with her grandfather did she learn of House Butterwell. They had been the competing power to House Frey not even a century prior. Their wines second only to those produced in the arbor, and they had dominated the dairy markets. Until Bloodraven, the same man who imprisoned Shiera, had their holdings dismantled, and lands salted for supporting the Blackfyres. With not a shred of pride left they became little more than _very_ petty Lords. Wedding well below their former status with landed knights.

Sansa did not hesitate to reinstate them returning the, now less salty, lands where Whitewalls once stood. Alongside generous investments they were now returning to prominence in their former markets. Needless to say they loved her. Not only for her generosity, but for being the product of a coalition that ended the Targaryens as well. She kept Alta close at hand so that a prominent marriage could be arranged at some point. Powerful allies were needed in the changing political landscape of the Riverlands. The Butterwells would be stalwart in their support of her new House for many centuries to come.

Indeed, that loyalty showed even in the very fine stitching of Arya's and her own gowns. Where her's was the black and orange of her own banner, Arya's was grey and white in tribute to House Stark. Twined expertly throughout both were hundreds of encrusted diamonds. They glimmered vibrantly as they both twirled about the hall. No Queen, Princess, or maiden in that moment could ever hope of competing with the Stark maidens whilst inside of Winterfell. Now, with aching feet, Sansa noticed her sister had finally manipulated King Robert into a gentle pattern. Relieved she waved apologetically at Jory Cassel prior to slipping against a nearby wall. "Thank you," Her voice was genuine as she took a glass of Dornish red from a servant girl. Though in an intentional charade she only pretended to sip at it.

No expenses had been spared. House Stark had recently, easily, paid its debt to the Rogares off. With the boom of the economy they were wealthier than ever before. "A dance, if you will, Lady Sansa?" Came a quiet, deceptive voice. She turned to face the Bolton Bastard. He was not ugly, though quite unnerving indeed. Eyes white as ice, black hair short, a large frame designed to intimidate.

"No," She responded shortly. Prince Joffrey had been insulted enough. Sansa would not stoop so low as to dance with a bastard before the Crown Prince at risk of harming her own safety in the future. Especially not one who had been sent as an insult to Winterfell. Nor one who was a suspected kinslayer, and who came from the loins of House Stark's most upstart House. Eyes flickering about she spoke in a softer tone, "Lord Bolton was a fool to send you here. Us Starks have grown stronger than ever before in the last three years. Wealthier, smarter, and far more dangerous." His eyes grew even colder than chips of ice at these words.

"So have we," He sneered back with almost sadistic animus, "House Karstark and House Bolton have never been closer. Just this month Torrhen Karstark was wedded to Lord Stane's second daughter. We will eat at your pathetic coalition, feast upon the spoils of your efforts, and show you all that you are no longer the Kings of Winter."

"How does it feel," Sansa asked in a dreamy manner then, with fluttering eyelashes, "To have to depend on the goodwill of House Karstark? Given that you are an upstart bastard with no prospects of your own? Nothing more than another leech of the Dreadfort. So pathetic that the Lords Karstark and Bolton sent you to whisper treason in my highborn ears, to avoid becoming sword fodder themselves?" Stepping into the light Sansa enjoyed her almost unnatural height, for it left her on even footing with the Bolton Bastard. Fully beneath the torchlight she knew that her gown was shimmering resplendently once more. "Your father is clever, I will give him that much." Her voice cut like a knife, "To deduce so rapidly that King Robert was planning to install me as the next Queen of Westeros. It is understandable that he would order you to poison me, as a Stark wielding so much power could set his own ambitions back generations more."

At this she pretended to slip. The glass of contaminated liquid splashed against Ramsay Snow's formerly fine tunic. Staining the pink fabric in a lacking imitation of blood. "Why he would send a bastard," She 'steadied' herself against his firm frame whilst hissing in his ear, "On such an important mission is beyond my comprehension." Slipping back her lips stretched again into a brilliant smile. "You have proven an engaging conversationalist. Never forget just how much you amused me this evening, Ramsay Snow." With a steady pace the Lady of Harrenhal escaped without paying any heed to his bitter expression.

Wasting no time at all she pulled her brother in for a wild dance after he broke away from Princess Myrcella. They moved so swiftly that none could hope to hear their conversation. "I must dance with Prince Joffrey before he decides to smother me on our wedding night," She dared not to glance at where the Crown Prince glowered after her shimmering form. "Thus, I will say what must be said quickly, Robb." Tully-blue met Tully-blue as the eldest Starks stared fully at one another. "Despite your kind-," She twirled back in from a spin, "Nature you must show the Boltons no mercy when the time comes. Steer clear of any situations in which you could ever become dependent upon them. Remember that their House only lives due to weakness on the behalf of our Kingly ancestors."

"Why are you telling me this, San? I already know not to trust them." His handsome brow furrowed as he snarled, "Does this have to do with what Ramsay Snow whispered to you in that corner moments ago?"

"Promise me, Robb," She glared plainly at him in response, "That you will heed my warning. That if I sort out Lady Dustin on my way to King's Landing you will focus on easing my concerns." He was observant now. Cleverer by scores each time she visited Winterfell. Her brain wished to believe that he could handle this matter, but her heart still needed assurances. With where she would soon end up weakness was a death sentence. The North and Riverlands were her fortresses. If Robb failed then so would she.

"I promise Sansa," He ended the dance prematurely to pull her into a hug, "I swear it."

"Good," Her voice cracked slightly, "Now it is time for me to fret over my own, more southerly demons."

OOOO

The entire castle fell into a mutinous uproar. Jaime Lannister had disappeared in the night. _How_ was the main question. None of the guard at Winterfell's new, out walls would admit to having seen him ride off. Ravens from Lords farther out demonstrated that no amount of searching the Northern lands was yielding any needed results. With that dead end having been reached only one possible conclusion was left. "He must have abandoned his oath," Robb spoke with Arya as the stared together out of his window in the Maester's Turret.

"Aye," She nodded back at him, her grey eyes directed towards the courtyard below. Tensions were visible as King Robert's many Lannister men kept completely separate of the Starks and their bannermen. "Why Queen Cersei is too dumb of a cunt to recognize such a thing we will probably never know." The Queen had first accused her hosts of having her brother executed in the middle of the night. To which Arya, outspoken as ever, had plainly interrupted their father to tell the woman that Jaime Lannister was of too little political value for such a thing to have ever passed. Prince Joffrey had gone on a vengeful storm against her in response. The nineteen year old prick threatening to raise his father's banners against the North if his uncle was not immediately returned. Thankfully, this was what finally convinced King Robert to have the pair of them locked away.

"Did you come here with news?" Robb asked, "Or just to wait with me until the arrival." The host of giants, skinchangers, and the Order of the North were set to arrive soon. They would, hopefully, kneel to King Robert as well as their father.

"They are an hour away," Arya admitted, "I stopped by the Watchtower on my way here. Jory Cassel said that it seems Theon sent at least two-thousand of his Wildling men to supplement the party."

"Good," Robb spoke firmly, "I would have stormed the Dreadfort with all of our men if the Boltons had sabotaged this."

"Hopefully you would leave Karhold for me, dearest brother," Arya smiled deviously at him. Seriousness lit her eyes after the smiles had finally faded. "I managed to persuade King Robert that Bran should become a squire to Ser Barristan. The Lord Commander will stop to collect our brother from the Vale on the way back to King's Landing." Her voice paused, "I did make them both swear as well that they would never let Bran be elevated to the Kingsguard."

"Clever," Robb agreed, "Bran will be more than capable of making his own fortunes with such a boon. We need to be able to forge decisive marriage alliances someday very soon." He paused to peer at her, "Though I wonder whether you are truly capable of handling King Robert."

"He is three times my age," Arya admitted, "And his eyes make no secret of the fact that he wishes to defile me. Though I am no average maiden, Robb. If this will help our family to create a tide of influence in King's Landing then I will string him along."

"What will you do if he asks you to pay back his favours one day?" Robb pressed. Her grey gaze stormed like a blizzard of icicles in response prompting him to go silent. In that moment he learned that Arya was no longer his littlest sister. She was a Stark maiden, one who would soon enter the snakepit with Sansa and their politically naive father.

"Speaking of favours and Bran's marriageability," Arya spoke finally, "It is my wish for you to bequeath Sea Dragon Point to him instead. He will be much more valuable than I as both the second to inherit as well as a Lord in his own right." Her arms crossed, "Besides. I only ever wanted my own seat so that the Order of the Rose could have a permanent base of operations. He will surely allow them to continue on as intended."

"What do you plan to do instead?" Robb asked sharply. He was unfamiliar with such a situation. All the Northern Lords would have murdered so that they could lay claim to such wealthy lands. Now Arya was giving it all up?

"I have a feeling that I can squeeze much power and fortune out of King Robert yet," She answered in response. A disgusted frown seemed to twist her lips. "Besides, it has always been a dream of mine to see the world like Jon has been able to. Perhaps now that Sansa is no longer able to I will be the one to forge an advantageous connection with the Free Cities."

Robb did not plan on telling her so soon, but this was quite swell for his plans anyways. He had been much too hasty in deciding to spare one of his cleverest siblings on something so trivial as Sea Dragon Point. Bran was untested, his progress in the South unobserved by any of the Starks. Any fool could make something out of Sea Dragon Point, especially with much guidance from Winterfell. Already Robb and Shiera were in the early stages of planning out their Northern competitor to the Citadel of Oldtown. One that would be located on the fork of the White Knife where a lively town was beginning to form. Defensively positioned between two rivers, protected from pirates by White Harbor, yet still connected to the rest of the world.

Arya was canny enough to build what Lady Shiera desired. She had already proven herself capable of such with her Order of the Rose. A city of such prestige to rival Oldtown, whilst an order dedicated to knowledge-gathering would be fostered safely within her walls. More importantly, House Stark would be guaranteed safety for at least the next several centuries to come. Jon with his legions of Wildling soldiers, immense wealth, fertile farmland, and skinchangers as well soon enough. Bran with the shipbuilding materials and unclaimed lands of Sea Dragon Point which provided the perfect balance to House Dustin's growing power. Rickon who would open the gates to increased trade with his salt mines, as well as supply the North with mountains of preserved fish.

This Northern Citadel would prove an extension of House Stark's power in the east. As well as spread their influence into the Vale and Riverlands as dying Maester's were replaced by their own learned men. For many years to come, Robb could only dream, the Bolton resistance would be mollified. House Dustin would be effectively neutralized, as would House Wull.

"Robb," Arya shook him from his dreams and ambitions. "They are here! Let us leave to watch the Giants kneel for father." As he glanced out the window towards the massive creatures Robb smiled. These were the beings that would help him in _finally_ achieving his dreams.

A fortress on Sea Dragon Point, the Citadel on the White Knife's fork, and the Stoney Horn would be completed in no time.

OOOO

Val had tried to escape many times over. The first attempt being her closest and most valiant. Even after she was restrained she had still fought, biting off ears or spitting violently whenever an unfortunate soul came close enough. As a result the Wildling now found herself bound and gagged in a freezing little hut. With only bald women disfigured by hideous tattoos for company. All they offered to eat was Pearlwort jam or on rare occasions cannibalized flesh from captured men of the Ice-River Clans. She did not shy from the forbidden meal. Worse had passed through her throat. Besides, with the spreading news that even the Ice-River Clans were being drawn into Mance's mess her diet would soon consist only of the repulsive jam.

The old men who shared the tent with her chortled happily about any gossip that made its way to their ears. They were slaves though. Only useful for sustenance or the pleasure of the strange Glacier witches. Val mostly ignored what they said. Trying to ignore the pain of having been bound in a sitting position for so long. When the dull pain grew bad enough and Val considered rolling over to smother herself was the moment that they came. Dragging her limp body through the craggy walls of ice. Far away from the camps. Further into the heart of winter than was to be encouraged given the rumours Val had been hearing for months.

Dead rising as wights for the first time in millenia. Dangerous times these were.

Finally they arrived at a circular space within the tunnel of glaciers. Seven crones stood on the outskirts of the area. Sitting in the middle on his knees was a figure that caused Val's blood to nearly curdle. Eyes red as blood spots in a foul egg. A thin frame covered in the darkest tattoos Val had seen on anyone in this occult tribe. Fingernails which grew outwards into long tentacles of a black colour. They deposited her before him prior to removing the gag.

"Kiss the Master of the Glaciers," One of the cunts hissed, prior to cuffing her in the back of the head.

" _Enough_ ," The 'Master' rasped, " _This Princess of Wildlings is not of our rank. I do not want her kisses either way. Her pride will be our salvation._ " The voice was a whispering sigh. Like the wind on a day of dying winter. Undeniably ancient.

"I am no Princess," Val spat back at him, "Mance is King-Beyond-the-Wall, and my sister was his Queen."

" _You are the only remaining, singular leader of the Wildlings now that Mance Rayder has been killed-_ ," He was cut off.

"What?" Her eyes grew wide with pain, the witches behind grasping at both shoulders to keep their prisoner restrained. "No. What of my nephew? What of our position on the Frostfangs?"

" _After you were stolen the sothron turncloak descended into madness. He sacrificed the lives of those five-thousand who spoke against him. Two thousand men and nearly all the remaining giants rose against him in mutiny. Another five-thousand and half of the giants died in the effort."_ Those blood-red eyes glared at her, " _Mag the Mighty has defected with half his giants and hordes of Wildlings for chance at a life in the Gift. What remained of the rest of Mance's host splintered into many pockets of resistance._ " With a snap he motioned for something behind her to be brought into view.

The same woman who had thrown red powder into Val's face returned with a roiling bundle in her arms. " _Release the Princess from her bondage so she may take charge of her nephew_." It was almost too grand to handle. One moment the woman had been a prisoner. Now she held the only reminder of her beloved sister once again in both arms. Exhaustion would have been an understatement for how she felt in that moment. " _We wish you no harm_." He stared at her hard, " _I have seen the future of your arrival in our midsts for five years now. Before our prospects were bleak beyond hope. No possibility of survival for the peoples of these glaciers_. _All of us incorporated into an army of wights._ "

"What could you want from me?" Val asked curiously now. That they had gone to such effort to reunite her with the babe was enough for much trust to have been earned.

" _We_ _ **need**_ _for you to lead our ranks through the wild norths. To share a message to the remaining Free Folk that they must follow you south of the Wall._ " He paused. " _Only ten-thousand men and women will listen. The other half shall perish to the coming winter_."

"What would be expected south of the Wall?" Val asked, "Even if we somehow manage to make our way through." That truly was a large risk to approach the Order of the North with anything more than a bedraggled force of Free Folk farmers. There was an immense likelihood that they would immediately be put to the sword rather than listened to.

" _You will kneel to the Starks as a regent in the stead of your nephew. For the sake of the ten-thousand who so loyally followed you_." Those grisly, foul nails slipped downwards to stroke across the freezing ice beneath. " _I have seen your nephew grow into a great Lord of Westeros. His seat shall be a castle at Queenscrown. Your own blood will shape the North, and bind us Wildlings as kin to the southron Lords."_ He stood to stare down at her. Mutilated face as serious as the Starks were about destroying the Free Folk. " _You cannot accomplish this alone. Without our horses or company you will never reach the correct pockets of Wildlings in time. The masts of House Dustin's ships have been spotted off our coastlines. Many thousands of fresh, unexhausted men have arrived to supplement the Order of the North._ "

"I understand," Her voice was like iron, "Your help will not be free. Tell me what you will want."

" _One day you shall sit on a high seat of power. With unlimited access to the Beauty of the Bleeding Star_ ," The Master of Glaciers was firm as his name implied in that moment. " _The Roses shall battle us to train her in their ways. You will be our most influential ally in preventing such a thing. In allowing us to influence the First Men blood that shall run hot through her veins. Her power shall be half our own. Keep us close to you as your southron court. Delegate unto us one day the task of instructing the Beauty_."

"I swear to do so," She answered easily enough. They were her only hope of seeing her nephew safely under the Wall. The gibberish pouring from his lips would surely be worth survival.

" _Leave us_ ," He hissed at receiving what had been wanted of her, " _We shall leave this very evening_."

OOOO


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven: Sociopaths and Sorcery.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

"You are a clever one, Robb Stark," Shiera Seastar swept into his solar.

"How so?" He asked, sitting up straight. Unsurprisingly the young man had been buried in mounds of documents as usual. The Northerly brilliance of a dying summer pooled through his window, bathing her face in light. In accordance with the unusual warmth she had shirked her usual furs. A silky gown of silver lace which hugged her bosom tightly prior to whirling loosely downwards to her feet. Settled around her throat was a necklace of emeralds and sapphires. The lovely jewels caused her mismatched gaze to flash in alternating patterns. The acting Lord of Winterfell did not hesitate in gripping the desk before him tightly.

She was dressed to kill.

"You do not trust me," With great grace Lady Seastar settled across from him. Her fingers snapped up as he started to protest. "That is good. You have as much honor as your father, yet you are thrice as cunning. It means I will not wind up wedded to a simpleton." She smiled at him, as he lost his breath at the thought of marrying her. "The Blue Roses will serve as excellent spies throughout the North. Even if you only meant to use them as a deterrent against my influence."

"Clearly not," Robb shook his head disappointedly, "If you could so easily determine such a thing."

"I am not some mere Northern Lord, love," She reached over to grasp his hand in her own whilst moving to pluck away a paper from his mound. Heart swelling, tongue knotted, Robb could say nothing in response. "Distrust me until our interests are more permanently aligned. That is understandable and advisable. Just realize that I am far from a fool. Few have managed to plot by me unnoticed." Her lips tightened as she perused the document. Her manicured fingernails squeezed tightly at Robb's hand until he returned the favour.

"How can you love me?" Robb asked suddenly, almost instantly regretting it as she glanced at him in response. "You bedded many men far comelier, smarter, and stronger than I. Women too, if the accounts written by Maesters from that time are anything to go by. You were a Princess, a Mistress of Whispers, a merchant, and the most desirable woman in the world. You still are, come to think of it…" He trailed off as she stared at him.

"Love has a different meaning to everyone that claims to have found it, Robb Stark," Shiera set the page back down. "Yes, in those days I took whatever I lusted for. Westeros was my orchard, and I picked whichever fruits were to my liking. Because I could." Her other hand reached over to slide up his wrist. "Then my brothers stripped me of all but a fraction of my wealth. Bound me deep beneath Winterfell where they thought no one would find me. They stole my easy, boring life as a Targaryen Princess away from me. Thrusted me into this era of political strife." Her eyes began to glimmer with more life than Robb had ever seen. "I am no longer the Princess or Great Bastard you have clearly read so much about, my love. Ever since you woke me from my slumber I have become whatever I make of _myself_. Can you imagine the thrill of starting with nothing? Conniving your way towards something with little more than your own cunning?"

He did not answer, for the answer was obvious. The Starks had owned very little to be proud of. All of Westeros had scorned them only five or so years earlier as poor savages. Now with every passing day it seemed he found himself sinking his teeth into _more_ with immense relish. Seemingly a trait learned from the woman holding his hand now.

"It was a delicious turn of events," The Riverine Lady sighed almost erotically with fluttering eyelashes, "To take what I wanted for once rather than have it given to me. I went from a relic of a disgraced dynasty to one of the most powerful Nobles in the Riverlands. All of my influence in Lys reclaimed. An heir to the Kings of Winter my lover." She glanced fully at him now. "You are my greatest conquest. I took you as a naive boy, and trained you to square off against the strongest of your future bannermen. Influenced your mind so that you could scrutinize my every intention. Shaped you into the greatest challenge I have ever encountered."

"I am not your conquest," Robb contradicted her plainly, "Not yet at least, Shiera."

"No. Not yet." Shiera corrected herself whilst slipping back to her full posture. Standing to both feet she stalked around the desk. Fingertips skimming across the many documents. "More importantly, my love," Her voice took a taunting lilt, "What led you to believe you were not my comeliest suitor?" That voice dropped to a sultry growl as she wedged herself upon his lap. "You are so tantalizingly manly compared to the southerners I bedded in my youth, so persistently honorable in the face of my charms." Her lips swelled around his earlobe, "So. Frustratingly. Delectable." They tore into one another like wild animals not long after that.

Idly, Robb Stark mused surprisedly to himself that he was not angrier with the Targaryen beauty. Her love was a greedy, jealous, hungersome abomination fed on the blood of ambition. So very different from what he felt for her, so much less pure. Frankly, the Stark heir was merely relieved that no matter how twisted Lady Shiera's heart was it belonged to him. That he alone would come the closest to conquering it. If she could believed of course.

Terrifyingly enough, he did believe her.

OOOO

"Do you think we will arrive at King's Landing before father, Sansa?" Arya asked as they rocked within the swaying war galley.

Fingers twiddling with the dials of the same metal ball she had found in the Crypts so long ago, Sansa looked up. Her sister wore trousers and a shirt of mail. Perfectly prepared in case any pirates took it upon themselves to attack the fleet of White Harbor war galleys. Beside her reclined their mother in one of the worn gowns she had owned since first arriving at Winterfell. "No," She answered shortly, "Though that is fortunate. The King will have no say in where we decide to place our cousin."

"I never imagined I would be sailing for my own sister's keep with four-thousand Northmen," Their mother bit out harshly, "Plotting to steal away her only son."

"Your sister is deranged mother," Sansa snapped out testily, already close to zoning back upon her metal globe again. "Vipers though they may be not a single person to have visited Harrenhal from King's Landing thinks highly of her. What does it tell you that the Royces, Belmores, Templetons, Waynwoods, and Redforts have already amassed their forces? Nor did it take much at all for Arya to convince the King that we will be able to better influence the young Arryn?" What she did not say was that this was the perfect opportunity for her to have called her banners at Harrenhal. With the King's permission, as well as that of the Vale Lords, the greater majority would be marching to help in the possibility of a siege. Then Sansa would march straight to King's Landing with half of her summoned forces in tow. More than four-thousand men. Enough to lend some safety against the six-thousand Gold Cloaks should things turn sour.

"When did my daughters forget the Tully words? Family. Duty. Honor. To march against our own kin is a crime. Especially after what the Lannisters did to Lord Arryn!" The woman had been irate with cold fury since the King publicly ordered that she travel with them back at Winterfell. No other person could have served as a better diplomat in the particular circumstances.

"If the rumors regarding Aunt Lysa are false due to their sources originating from King's Landing," Arya sagely interjected, "Then so are any claims against the Lannisters. Besides, mother, we are not just Tullys. Our words are not purely your words. Winter is Coming." Her eyes flashed as sharp as the steel belted at her lean waist. "Lord Jon shaped the Vale into a far more powerful ally than it ever was before. It was due to his help that we have been able to attack piracy along the Stepstones. That we have begun to accumulate enough power that our coalition can counterbalance the Tyrells, or Lannisters. We will discern what we can from our visit with your sister and judge her fairly. That being said, _nothing_ can be allowed to threaten what we have all built for ourselves."

Their mother went silent. Glaring mutinously at the rolling floor. Arya was correct of course. For more reasons than she had even listed. The Vale was a powerful ally to be depended upon. If they collected Robert Arryn it would allow Sansa to cinch at least twenty-thousand more swords beneath her belt. That would be three, newly powerful, kingdoms willing to defend her against the corrupt Crown Prince. Shivering at the thought of Joffrey Baratheon Sansa fiddled more with the circles of First Men runes. The increased number of Wildlings had meant that securing a tutor was easy enough. Back at Harrenhal she managed to become nearly half-way fluent with the help of a Spearwife named Osha. Prior to leaving Winterfell the young Lady had been sure to leave her no longer needed translator for Rickon and Robb's benefit. In a North that was shifting culturally from southron tradition back more evenly to that of the First Men it was vital they be able to speak as their ancestors once had.

Sighing, the nearly sixteen-year-old maiden set the object aside. She reminisced momentarily upon how the three of them, the Northern Roses and the Tully Trout had squared off against Lady Dustin. In the end, after threatening to have her heir sent to the Dreadfort as a ward alongside Ramsay Snow, they all gained things they wanted. Sansa received a solemn vow that the woman would faithfully serve House Stark until her death. Arya was promised that the booming female population in Black Crown would be given the choice to participate in the Order of the Rose. Their mother wisely asked that two-thousand Dustin men supplement any of the Manderly knights White Harbor would be able to provide. A wise move given that they all stood to lose quite a bit if pirates took them hostage on the Bite.

They had done surprisingly good work together. Even though the arrival of Giants at Winterfell meant Lady Dustin's power was soon to be curbed anyways with the swift constructions of Stoney Horn and a keep at Sea Dragon Point. Sadly it seemed that they all were now at each other's throats. Lysa Arryn would not be facing a united team of diplomats, but instead two unusually accomplished girls sparring ferociously with their mother. "My Ladies," The Captain slipped down, "You must see this." They all rose to the deck quickly. Sansa still held her ball close by. In fact, it seemed as though there were not many moments where it left her grip nowadays.

"Thank the fucking Gods!" Arya stretched as their mother chastised her for blasphemy and swearing. Sansa agreed wholeheartedly with the naughty words though. Land was in sight, but something else too.

"My lookout has counted over ten-thousand Valemen," The captain supplied the answer though he had not been asked for it. "A large fleet of long boats as well as all the banners of the Sisters. House Tollett is also present."

"Tensions have been rising in the Vale," Sansa explained to her mother. The woman's surprise was not hard to understand. "Your Lady sister is less approving of the merchants than her husband was. She has levied massive taxes upon the Sister ports, as well as Gulltown. The merchant class all across the Vale have fared little better. I will not be surprised if more than the Lords sent summons to raise arms aid our cause." A crack, ever so tiny, appeared in her mother's facade at that. Sansa quickly realized that the woman would be won over more easily than anticipated. The more Valemen that arrived at the Eyrie, the more her mother would have to admit that Lysa Arryn was not fit to rule.

OOOO

Bran Stark could not quite believe his luck. That he had become a squire to Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard. Of course, the duty quickly lost its luster. There were excellent bouts of practice in arms though that was easily negated by time spent with King Robert. Bran, despite his inexperience, was posted to fill in Jaime Lannister's old spot quite often alongside Meryn Trant. While the fat, corrupt King doted upon him, Meryn Trant was bitterly opposed to his arrival. Otherwise, everything was quite swell. After Ser Barristan escorted thirteen-thousand Tully men from Trident's Gate, Harrenal, and Fairmarket to the Vale they had headed straight south for King's Landing. In his spare time Bran either observed his father's duties as Hand, or raced with his Direwolf, Rune, throughout the Red Keep.

Those easy, early days came to a swift end though. On his off time from standing guard with Trant, Bran had wound up in the gardens with Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella. While Tommen, a very sweet boy, circled Rune's patient head with a crown of flowers, Bran sat beside the Princess on the fountain. They often read through books she had gathered from the Red Keep's impressive library. Both of them wished to travel the world one day, and they had bonded quite well over little historical facts regarding the Free Cities. It also did not hurt that Bran was quite smitten with Myrcella. She was already beautiful, as well as intelligent. After all, few but the most prodigious minds were able to so easily win at Cyvasse.

Prince Joffrey ruined everything, of course. The nineteen year old was a monster to say the least. A true terror. Twice a month he went hunting only to return with monstrously butchered animals. He would strut about openly with lovely whores wrapped around his arms only for them to never be seen leaving the keep again. To make matters worse the Crown Prince did not discriminate with regards to status. No one was safe from his straying gaze. Just the year prior he had very publicly defiled a Farring girl. She had been found pregnant, dead, and broken at the bottom of a tower. Everyone knew the truth though a guard was blamed for it anyways.

That day was the day in which Bran squared off against true evil for the first time in his life.

The Prince had approached without warning. Surrounding him were two younger Lannister cousins. Sycophants who indulged Joffrey's sick nature in exchange for favour. "Books, sister? Breeding mares should not waste their time with words." He jibed in a condescending tone. Bran had stood to bow, for in the likeness of his mother Joffrey Baratheon demanded courtesy. Rather rudely he tore the tome regarding the unexplored lands of Sothoryos away. They had been excitedly discussing Bran's wrinkled letters from Jon Snow leading Myrcella to scour the library as usual.

"Stop it now, Joffrey," Princess Myrcella was the bravest of her bloodline. Bran had always imagined that she alone truly embodied House Baratheon's words. Discreetly he rather recently confided such to the King only to notice the fat man begin taking more interest in the long neglected Princess.

"Or what, sweet sister?" He sneered, tossing the tome into the fountain behind her.

"No!" Her grief was plainly evident, and easy to understand. That book was rare, incredibly so. Written by Corlys Velaryon after his travels around the world. Myrcella's face turned red. "I am sick of you, Joffrey," She snarled, "Of watching you breath-!"

What happened next was very quick. The nineteen-year-old grabbed his sister by the front of her exquisite, green gown. Ripping the front of it open while his Lannister cousins snickered and egged him on shamelessly. Rune stood on his haunches whilst growling violently at the shameful scene. Bran did not hesitate at withdrawing his sword so that it pressed against the sadistic man's chin. Sandor Clegane, along with Mandon Moore who had been guarding Myrcella, turned on Bran. Both of them choosing Joffrey's pleasure over siding with a defenseless Princess. "No fear, sister," He smiled like a worm despite the steel pressing gently into his flesh. "You are a pretty little thing. Just look at how smitten this Stark shit is with you. Father will have no trouble marrying you off as soon as you flower. Then you will no longer have to watch me breathe. You will be too busy getting fucked by your husband. Growing bitterer with each day until you are a shell of your former beauty. No more than a whelped husk like our mother." His green eyes flashed like fire, "Then I will take your firstborn as my ward. Raise him to be _exactly_ like me."

Those perverse fingers tightened as she was nearly dragged off the ground. In turn Bran pressed the steel tighter in his chin so blood was drawn. "Do not put this fate off. If father dies before you are sold off then I will have you wedded to Walder Frey." A grin as he glanced at the Hound. Something was whispered so low that none could hear. Though immediately after Joffrey dropped his sister to the ground so suddenly that she fell. Bran wasted no time wrapping his own cloak about the girl's nudity. Defending her from the untoward glances of Moore and the Lannister cousins. "Take note Stark," The Hound glared down at him as his charge fled the scene, "You drew blood. That one does not care if his victims have cunts or cocks. He will be coming for you."

Tommen struggled to calm Rune while the squire knelt beside Myrcella. Her eyes were wet with tears. "He will never touch your children, Princess," The boy promised, "I will convince the Starks, Tullys, and Arryns to raise their banners if such a thing were ever to happen. I would lead the charge myself." A finger was placed against his lips as the sweet beauty shook her head with those wise eyes.

"No Bran. I would never let men die for the sake of my brother's sadism." There was still strength in those green eyes. "Mine own fingers would sooner wrap around the hilt of a dagger than give him what he truly wanted." Shakily Myrcella Baratheon peered at the fountain behind her. "Now, could you please have Ser Moore retrieve that book. I must at least try to dry…" Everything else was lost on him as he wondered whether he was strong enough to protect the Prince and Princess, let alone himself, from their brother. Not when his father was preoccupied with some unspoken secret. Not when his brother and Lady Shiera were back at Winterfell. Not with his sisters in the Vale.

Now was the time for him to grow fangs of his own.

OOOO

Johanna Tully sat with one hand upon her very pregnant belly. The drapes in her study were shut tightly. Whenever light flowed through the windows of the Gatebridge Keep she found herself sorely tempted to ride through the beautiful landscape. That was not possible given the late stage of her pregnancy, as well as the information that needed tending to. Not only did her position in the center of Westeros mandate that she always be up to date on the latest politics, but her former status as a Rogare meant a knowledge of events beyond the Narrow Sea was vital too. Her child was, after all, the nibling of Drazenko Rogare. As he grew in strength so would the heir to House Tully.

Not much had changed in the Reach, Westerlands, Stormlands, or Dorne. Tywin Lannister had been heard discussing his imminent return to King's Landing where he would serve as Hand. A far more powerful man than he had been even whilst serving in the same capacity under King Aerys. With all of the lowly taxed trade the merchants had carted through the Sunset Canal he had grown wealthier than ever before, which truly said something. Not only himself, of course, but his bannermen as well. Every Westerman Lord had experienced the phenomenon of bulging coffers. Their castles growing larger and their lifestyles more opulent.

Of course, Ned Stark had recently passed through the Riverlands with the news that he was the new Hand spreading like a flame. That meant Robb Stark who had proven himself to be very capable would remain as acting Lord of Winterfell. So House Stark's already swelling armies and coffers would continue to do just that while the Direwolf's influence would permeate even more deeply in the south. A Stark Hand would yield their coalition great strength in battling an increasingly powerful Lannister regime. Not only that, but Sansa Stark's betrothal also served as a good omen. Then there was the matter of the besieging of the Eyrie. With Robin Arryn's welfare placed into better hands the coalition would be just as strong as before.

This was absolutely essential to matters that disseminated far beyond Westeros of course. With help from the Vale, North, and Riverlands her brother had launched a campaign into the Stepstones. He had only recently managed to consolidate power in Lys by wedding their younger brother Trycharios to the daughter of their greatest rival. In turn, Trycharios had managed to attain enough status from the union that he was finally named First Servant to the Master of Trade. Likely he would one day serve as the 'impartial' overseer of the Temple of Trade and Court of Glass for the rest of his life. All of this recovered influence meant that two fortresses had been erected on the island of Steelcrown.

Not the largest island at all no, especially when sitting next to the much bigger Bloodstone, but it was a valuable foothold. All pirates had been scourged, captured, or exiled. In several years the rest would be purged as well prior to being fortified. Then a mixture of new Westerosi Lords and Lyseni merchants would be allowed to settle the lands. Tolling the passing Essosi merchants a fair bit of coin for the much safer journey. So long as Bravos kept its fucking nose clear of Rogare affairs for once, that was.

"Niece," A loud voice boomed chidingly as though she were still a little girl, "How often must I warn you against upsetting yourself during pregnancy?" Her Uncle Medore stepped into the chambers with those twinkling blue eyes. The monstrously tall man gently prised the papers from her fingers. Secondhand papers stolen from Edmure's oft-neglected desk of important information. He was not an unintelligent man, her Lord husband. The Riverrun heir was simply disinterested in the affairs most people of import allowed to dominate their selfish attentions. Edmure was kind. Spending entire days with the Smallfolk, listening to their concerns. Johanna had fallen deeply in love with her husband's delightfully massive heart.

"I cannot confine myself to these chambers. Even if it is irresponsible of me to concern my mind with plotting." Johanna sighed softly. At her behest the man had been extracted from Old Town so that he could remain instead with her in the safety of the Riverlands. She greatly enjoyed having a family member so close at hand while her brothers were a kingdom and sea away.

"Hanna," Her Uncle did not hesitate to pull a chair out so he could sit. Their knees touched as he reached out to grasp her free hand. Instead she placed the fatherly fingers upon the swelling belly which was constantly assaulted by fluttering kicks. "You have always been responsible. Not like Drazenko though. Your sense of duty comes from a love for family. Not a desire to satiate an overly inflated ambition." The flesh around those blue eyes crinkled. "Let Edmure and I take care of you for once. Enjoy this opportunity to be irresponsible. Unshackled by obligation."

That pretty head of silver curls shook in response. "No, Uncle Medore," Violet flashed, though not unkindly, "There is no such thing as a rest in our world. Our House let its guard down only for the rest of Lys to try and purge us from city. We rested a second time, and as a result you are the closest thing I will ever have to a father. Bravos _never_ sleeps. She births soldiers by the thousands for every Rogare we whelp into adulthood." The baby kicked against the joined hands prompting them both to smile. "I am going to raise a brood of fighters. Silver-haired Tully children wealthier, more powerful than any ruling House of the Riverlands before them. They will wed powerful people. Then, the combined might of Lys and Westeros will _finally_ vanquish our foes."

"Your mother did not dare to fret over such things during any of her pregnancies," Moredo Rogare countered in response. "She recognized that none of those plots could come to fruition if her children were not born without complications. Her love was enough that nothing else mattered but the safety of her babes." The, almost condescending, criticism hung heavy in the air like a cloud.

"No woman loves in quite the same way as another," Johanna smiled softly, "My mother protected us with all the might she possessed. I am in a very different position. Lys will soon be completely beneath our control when Trycharios rises to prominence. My husband is Lord of the Riverlands and Sunset Canal. Uncle to the Starks and Robin Arryn." Her fingers ghosted across her belly as the man finally pulled away. "I wield weapons as strong as any of those employed by those Faceless Dogs. My babe is- _must_ be strong enough to grow healthily as I fight. We all must pull our own weight now. Drazenko's plans depend upon equal contribution."

"Drazenko will lead us to our deaths fighting that fucking city of assassins!" Moredo almost snarled.

"Drazenko will lead us to salvation," She corrected sternly, "He is the greatest mind this House has lain claim to since Lysandro the First Magister. I will no longer tolerate you acting like a petulant child over his outwitting you. It was years in the making." Her hand reached out to grip her uncle by the bearded chin tightly. "You will help me. Because it is what is best for the sake of this child."

He had lost the argument at that reminder. "What do you have planned for me, niece?"

"Lord Hoster grows weaker with each visit Edmure makes to Riverrun. Soon I shall be the Lady of Riverrun, my attentions fully turned towards managing our very unruly Riverlords." Her hand was removed. "You will be granted Fairmarket after we leave, but it will come at a cost. I expect you to wed Eleanor Mooton, the only heir to Maidenpool." The Mootons had grown very powerful after their centuries old petition for a charter of expansion was granted. "The Freys have been sniffing around her for months now, from what I hear," Johanna continued. "That is why you shall go 'hunting'. Find yourself lost, and forced to seek sanctuary at Maidenpool. Spend time with the girl. Dazzle her in a way no Frey possibly can." He was handsome enough despite his age to woo such a valuable maiden.

"What if her father does not want to strengthen his ties with Riverrun, or the Rogares?" He asked in response.

"You will offer to send your second born son to grow up at Maidenpool. The firstborn shall be a Rogare of Fairmarket, but the spare shall be a Mooton of Maidenpool." Her lips curved dangerously at this, "The Late Lord Frey would not bend to give quite that much. Nor would such a greedy man be willing to halve Eleanor Mooton's current dowry." She waved at his protest, "Securing Maidenpool as a dependable ally for centuries to come is far more important than a bit of gold. They are growing too strong, and the Tullys have allowed them to drift much too far away from Riverrun's control."

"Fairmarket and a son who shall rule Maidenpool are not enough." He responded shortly. Johanna had seen this moment coming from a league away. Her uncle had revitalized the Rogare Bank from absolute destitution. There was no way that she would get anything from him without negotiation.

"What do you want?" Her voice was clearly exasperated.

"You will create a position on the Assembly of Riverlords to suit my interests. I shall become the Ambassador to Essos." His teeth resembled the fangs of a wolf at that point.

"Fine. Just do not use this as a means of interfering with Drazenko's plans." For the securing of Maidenpool she was willing to trust him with such power again. He was her uncle after all.

"Drazenko is in over his head," Moredo Rogare stood to full height, "If you children insist on playing such deadly games then I shall not be leaving you all to your own devices. It is time an adult stepped back into such matters, no?" Those expensive, leather boots of his squeaked as he strode to leave the room. "Eleanor Mooton shall be secured within a fortnight." The door shut with a loud click.

Leaving Johanna Tully to wonder if she had just helped, or hurt her brother's ambitions.

OOOO

Arya spent the morning of their arrival to the Eyrie with Nymeria. Before her alleged 'beauty' had blossomed the girl would have tried to be more inconspicuous. Spying had once been her forte. Now with each day that passed it seemed more unlikely that she would ever be able to so easily gain such information again. Common born soldiers whispered as they stared her way, highborn Lords knelt into gallant bows as they kissed at her hand, and any camp followers tittered with angry expressions at the loss of attention. Whether she wore trousers or dresses it seemed not to matter, for the encounters which left her feeling sickened still occurred. King Robert's almost slovenly obsession with the youngest Stark daughter seemed to have been the final nail in the coffin of her innocence to lecherousness.

For that reason, the girl found herself nearing Sansa's chambers within the Gates of the Moon. Lord Nestor Royce, of a cadet branch, had wasted no time opening his gates and had clearly been preparing generously for a show of exorbitant hospitality. Such was unsurprising. There was barely shy of fifty-thousand men outside his gates. Twenty-five-thousand Valemen, thirteen-thousand Rivermen, and ten-thousand Northmen. In other words, the days in which Lysa Arryn's paranoid mania had been allowed to rule unchecked would be cut short.

Especially, she though smugly, now that her Uncle Brynden had arrived to the scene. He was very familiar with the Eyrie. Perhaps more so than any other person who did not possess Arryn blood. Even better was the man's influence over their sometimes petulant mother. With only a single private conversation the Lady of Winterfell had been cowed back into her politically astute, sceptical self. After having sparred with the man earlier that day Arya had also begun to wonder whether Stony Sept might help establish Sansa's chain of southerly Red Roses.

Pushing the thoughts back for a more appropriate moment she neared her sister's chambers. They had been placed on opposite ends of the castle. Sansa's status as a Queen-to-be meant she currently occupied a very grand apartment. Arya, unfortunately, found herself squeezed into an available room with her sole-remaining handmaiden Jocelyn Dustin. Her hawkishly observant mother just next door to reprimand her for trying to sneak away unaccompanied during the night. Of course, this was the only option available to the Stark girl. Myranda Royce, clever and manipulative by scores, had clung to Sansa like the plague along with dozens of other Vale Ladies who had travelled to witness the disgracing of Lysa Arryn. Now would be Arya's only hope of speaking in private with the Lady of Harrenhal.

Admittedly, the plan which had taken shape in her head did not got quite as easily as imagined. "Lady Stark does not take any visitors in the night," A stiff Knight clad in Sansa's new colours barked down at her. He was likely one of the thousand or so men who Sansa had knighted to fill her previously slim army. Fiercely loyal to the woman who had given him a better life. Especially if her sister trusted him enough with guarding her chambers.

"Let me pass," Arya snapped back, stepping forth just the slightest bit, "You are speaking to Sansa Stark's sister."

"Not another step," The guard was unyielding, "Lady Stark will be more than happy to speak with you in the morning." His fingers moved to rest upon the pommel of his sword. Unsurprising given that Arya was no mere maiden. She could fight as well as her brothers, having been trained by Wildlings, Essosi immigrants, and a very reluctant Rodrik Cassel.

Behind her a familiar growl left Arya smiling wickedly. The guard shrunk back instinctively at the baleful sound. "I think I will be going in now." Without pausing the trouser-clad Lady marched passed him. Nymeria bounding alongside up the stairs to Sansa's apartment. "Good girl," She paused to ruffle the Direwolf's ears while moving to open the door. Unfortunately, this meant that the girl almost fell in shock at what awaited her grey eyes. Candles covered every inch of the luxurious chambers. The papers, scrolls, and books Sansa was always occupied with had been spread all about the space. A large, ancient-looking tome sat upon in front of Sansa's naked knees. On a small stool before that book balanced a large glass candle.

The chanting was truly the most terrifying part of it all. How her sister, one of the most Ladylike women in Westeros, appeared to be so… _Wild_. Auburn hair falling in chaotic tangles down that pale back. Willowy form twisting like one of the vipers Dorne was so famous for. Hisses, buzzes, and snarls erupted into the air. They were lucky to be so high up in the tower that no one else could overhear such terrifying sounds. Just to be safe the brave young woman shut the door behind her, fearful that someone might realize just how mad Joffrey Baratheon's betrothed was. Finally noting that Nymeria, Dream, and Phantom all sat beside one another beneath a far window. Eyes glowing against the flickering lights.

Suddenly her head was thrown back. Closed eyes pointed at the ceiling as her arms moved in a possessed sort of way. A fistful of leaves were scattered into the air above after being snatched out of a wooden bowl. More bizarre ingredients were used in similarly strange ways. Finally, Sansa stood to both feet, head still thrown back the whole time. A large flask opened so its contents could drip over her nude body. There was a gasp for air as the chanting stopped. With a mighty breath she finally stared forwards again.

Every lit candle suddenly went out.

Back pressed against the door Arya nearly screamed when the strange, glass candle emitted a blindingly brilliant light. Arms raised she observed the once dark world from what seemed to be a new perspective of reality. The grey, stone walls looked like mist in the Neck. Any shadows present grew darker than the obsidian they had begun mining at Winterfell. Sansa's red hair looked like flickering fire.

Red.

 _Fire._

 _Blood._

 _Crimson eyes_ glaring at Arya. A voice so cold, cruel and terrible screamed in her ears. Taking one-thousand shapes. Assuming one-thousand forms. ' _Your heart belongs to another. Your destiny lies unwoven with mine. Your powers of blackness instead of hope.'_ A force pushed her back into the door. Hard. Winded by the occult onslaught she was stuck with images. A beautiful young woman nearly all men coveted. Corpses hanging by ropes of pain. The city guided by a Titan. Men with the bodies of horses. Lands vast and varying. A soldier in gold with the confidence of a king. The Lion in the depraved shadows. Home.

"Arya?" That voice like honey signalled that the frightening images were over. Collapsing forwards she fell into her older sister's arms. Even though her naked form was covered in blood. Despite the fact that the future Queen of Westeros was a witch.

OOOO

The nobility of the Vale grew increasingly astounded, and enamored, with her daughters by stages. First had been the whispers of their beauty. How Sansa's blossoming southron looks were paired perfectly by Arya's burgeoning Northern loveliness. Then came the mutinous tittering of the Ladies as they enviously ridiculed what the girls had made for themselves. Sansa as a great Lady of the Riverlands. Arya, much more veiled amongst the softly visible Vale Ladies jealousies, as a ferocious warrioress. Now there was this great feat of cleverness. Seasoned men many years their elders had overlooked something that Sansa had managed on her own.

Lysa Arryn, her own sister, was now securely manacled away in a pair of chambers. All because Sansa had called the ruse so early on. That Catelyn's, apparently highly deranged, sibling had made to flee Westeros by boat. The five-hundred soldiers dispatched by the Lady of Harrenhal when they first arrived in the Vale had proven incredibly effective. Utilizing the new roads to disseminate rapidly towards Gulltown and other points of escape. Without wasting any time the Lady Arryn had fled for Heart's Home. Promising to wed a recently widowed Lyonel Corbray should he decimate the men in her pursuit. No matter how much the Corbrays coveted such a mighty play for the Eyrie it was a moot point. Catelyn's daughters had brought fifty-thousand men into the mountains. There were no other Houses willing to spurn the wealth brought in by Jon Arryn's loans to the Rogare Bank in favour of Lysa.

So they had personally delivered her in chains with three-thousand soldiers following them close behind.

"Why did you do it," Catelyn whispered, even though her sister was imprisoned down at the Gates of the Moon. As far as was reasonably possible from the snotty Vale Lords housed in the Eyrie's halls. Before the Lady of Winterfell was her nephew. Sickly as ash with a brow that seeped like a fountain. No matter how gently she cooed whilst wiping that pallid face the little boy grew no better. Comatose after his idiotic mother had dragged him all across the Vale from people who never even meant him any harm. One of a large team of Maesters summoned from across the Vale arrived to check on the young Lord.

Glad to slip away from the sad sight Catelyn found her feet carrying her to the High Hall of their own volition. Completely alone staring at the desolate state of the Arryn Throne. Only a practically orphaned, unhealthy little boy who possibly would not last that much longer. "A sad sight is it not?" Came a creaking, ironlike voice.

The fading beauty turned about with a swirl of her fading, auburn locks. "Lady Waynwood?" She had only met the woman in passing the day prior along with a flood of other nobles. The Lady of Ironoaks was possessing of a regal air despite her quibbling neck, and wrinkled face. "I would have thought everyone else asleep by now."

"Then you are a fool, and I should speak to your husband, or daughter herself, instead, Lady Stark. Men do not sleep at night. They prey on whores, and each other. Hungering for power." Her voice was firm. Though there was more behind it. Someone younger, born of a lower stature might not have called it for what this truly was.

Catelyn had every intention of doing so, however. "You are no more than the Lady of Ironoaks. How dare you speak to me in such a way?" Blue eyes blazed, "I shall only forgive such an affront should you tell me what _you_ hunger for, Lady Waynwood."

"You know your position in this realm well, my Lady." The crone moved to the left as Catelyn moved to the right. They were circling one another slowly as predators would. "I find myself enjoying such confidence. Your daughter did indeed inherit her spirit from you."

"Sansa?" She queried confusedly.

"No. I speak of Arya Stark. The incarnate of your husband's beautiful, coveted sister." Without hesitation the woman broke their circling. Turning to face the Arryn Throne. "To be frank I have never hungered for anything less than that throne before us."

Still not overcoming the suspicious nature of the woman's words Catelyn stared at the seat once more. "Tis not yours to hunger for, however. Not when my nephew has been returned to his rightful seat."

"Not mine at all. No," Waynwood agreed, "Though we both know that the young Falcon Lord is quite unwell. He was sickly before that woman dragged him about the Vale like a cyclone, and he is even worse off now." Her eyes peered sternly at the other Lady, "I do not threaten his safety. My hunger is not quite black enough to orchestrate the murder of a child. Though I _cannot_ help but plan for every possible likelihood."

"Your nephew," Catelyn tried to ignore her queasiness at the way she so easily agreed that little Robert would not pull through. "They call him Harry the Heir, do they not?"

"Cousin," She corrected, "Though he may as well be a grandchild for all the time I have spent raising him. A strapping young man with the look of Jon Arryn about him. He was knighted three years ago by Lord Royce during the Purge of First Men. In fact, Ser Harrold just returned this month from fighting on the Stepstones." Then from the shadows came a handsome man. With sandy hair, deep blue eyes, and a very tall, broad form. Swinging from his strapping hips was a greatsword on the left, and an axe on the right. Beside the muscular youth stood a Maester holding a box.

"You wish to have my daughter wedded to Ser Hardyng? To so boldly _conspire_ against Lord Robert is treason. Against the Vale _and_ the peace provided us all by the Iron Throne." The plot having been adequately sussed out, Lady Waynwood simply shrugged semi-defeatedly. At least there would be no more need to dance around sugary words.

"I told you that I would never conspire against a child. That is the truth," The crone reminded Catelyn. The Riverland woman gauged easily enough that the Vale Lady was telling the truth. However, that did not necessarily mean the admittedly dazzling lad only a few paces away possessed such an honorable steel. "Though you have proven yourself to be anything _but_ a fool over the course of our conversation. You must have realized during your journey here how wealthy the Vale has become. We Lords of the Mountains finally have some wealth to call our own. Our new might could possibly be lost to the Starks and Tullys should the connection forged by your Lord father pass into the afterlife with the little Falcon."

Catelyn could appreciate that logic. This journey had only reaffirmed what her daughters had told her all along. The Vale was too powerful now to risk letting the Eyrie abandon their coalition. Tywin Lannister or the Tyrells, perhaps even an overly aspiring Frey, would waste no time putting a jarring halt on Winterfell's growing influence. The Campaign in the Stepstones and any profitable trade benefits from a strong relationship would suddenly cease to exist. "Either way, Ser Hardyng is ten years older than my daughter. He is a man, and hardly willing to wait until Arya has truly flowered."

"I am only seven years older than the Lady Arya, my Lady," Harry the Heir spoke for himself now. He was suave. Still so youthful despite all of the battle experience he was purported to have.

"Still little better," Catelyn sniffed, completely ignoring Lady Waynwood now.

"Your daughter is not some frivolous maiden, my Lady." His tone was arrogant, decidedly rude. "I have never seen a woman fight. Let alone fight as well as she has in the yards since my arrival." That bark turned into a tone laced heavily with wonderment. "Lady Arya is already on the cusp of her greatness. A blind man could see such. I will wait however long I must to attain the Blue Rose as my wife."

The poetry seemed genuine enough though Catelyn was well enough on in years that it did little to sway her into a swoon. "You will find, Ser, that my younger daughter is not swayed by such flowery sentiments and words." Perhaps in that moment the Lady of Winterfell began to recognize just how alike she and Arya were.

"Step into the light my boy," Lady Waynwood interjected. He did as bidden. She neared him suddenly. "Smile," A gentle swat against the Knight's cheek left his dimples wide in view. Brilliantly white teeth gleamed in the low lighting. "Imagine, Lady Stark. Your daughter wedded to Harry. A High Lady. _True_ influence in this Kingdom. The sort that Lady Lysa was unable, or unwilling, to provide. Their children will be beautiful. Rich. Powerful. With the Arryn name if Harry ever has to take it on." Her emotionless face seemed to grow a shade mirthful. "For the first time since Lord Jasper the Eyrie will no longer be plagued by the endless wedding of cousins with cousins. Fresh blood shall leave these mountains more secure than has been the case in a long while."

""My Lady," The Waynwood Maester stepped forth, "I have brought the necessary materials to draft a betrothal contract."

"My husband is nowhere near the Eyrie," Catelyn responded humorlessly, "Unless you expected _me_ to oversee such a matter. Besides, my daughters are not mere brood mares. As we speak my firstborn plots to raise keeps in the North for all of his siblings. Especially Arya."

"That is common knowledge, and not such a secret as you might have believed," Lady Waynwood stated plainly. "We intend to approach Lady Arya with the contract as well. She will be a powerful noblewoman in her own right soon enough. Though it is… Fairer for someone with more experience in such matters to negotiate the actual terms."

Catelyn had to make a very important decision in the split moment of silence which followed. They had just betrayed that this whole plot would be brought to Arya's feet even if she refused them. Hence, it was necessary to think of how her daughter would respond. Which of course led Catelyn to the realization that her youngest daughter always acted the opposite of her mother's expectations. Arya would say yes. That much was certain. She had already impressed upon her the importance of the Vale to the stability of their position in the realm. Paired with the fact that Arya could simply move to Skane, Greywater Watch, or Bear Island if her parents disagreed, Catelyn decided that it was best to draft the contract and see how the unpredictable girl responded. "I will draft such a document with you, Lady Waynwood. Though there will be several non-negotiable terms."

"Such as?" The crone smiled at having gotten what she desired.

"First, in the event that my nephew produces an heir of his own, this betrothal shall be nullified." The Maester scrambled to both knees to write upon the stone floor. Catelyn had already been plotting to wed Arya to the sickly boy. She was strong willed. With a sharp enough mind to rule the Vale in his stead should such come to pass. Of course, if Catelyn were being honest with herself, Harry the Heir was certainly a much more attractive candidate for a goodson. "Second, Ser Harry is not to run about the Vale impregnating serving maids with bastards. He will spend his time on more productive matters."

"Such as?" The impetuous, handsome Knight enquired.

"Your ward has proven himself in battle, Lady Waynwood," Catelyn ignored him, preferring to deal with the more seasoned woman. "Though I fear it will take more than muscles and scars to impress my daughter. Arya is as fond of reading and logistics as she is of practicing in the yard. Ser Hardyng shall travel to the Citadel. He will forge as many links as he possibly can by the time my daughter is of age. If he takes this matter seriously enough I have full confidence that Arya shall be so impressed with her betrothed that she will have no qualms entering into a possible union with him. Besides, bastards birthed in the Reach are far enough from the Vale to spare my daughter any such embarrassment."

Clearly, Lady Waynwood distrusted her lusty cousin to remain abstinent as much as Catelyn did. "Agreed," Her aged voice complied despite Ser Harry's stormy gaze.

"Finally, Ironoak will allow my daughter to begin inducting any of its willing women into the Order of the Rose. Ser Harry will help her in convincing the rest of the Vale Lords in such a matter if he ever becomes an Arryn." This was intended to not only buy Lady Waynwood favour with Arya, but to lure the girl into the Vale. The Waynwoods would be Ser Harry's greatest supporters. Any relationships earnt from time spent at Ironoaks would be immensely valuable to her daughter. Lady Waynwood, probably unable to conceive such a prospect as women fighting in the Vale, seemed to take a cut for her House. A forced nod left the Maester scratching out the new terms.

After that a dowry was haggled over. Briefly, for Catelyn sternly reminded them that Arya would soon be a landed, Northern Lady. Her second son would stand to inherit whatever the girl built for herself in her homeland. Not to mention a union with House Stark stood to give Ser Harry an unimaginable amount of legitimacy. Then, predictably, came Lady Waynwood's terms. Her House would merely have a very close relative installed on the Arryn Throne. Though if that did not come to fruition all of this plotting would have come for naught. "Since House Melcom was liberated of its proper position beneath our House as vassals we have stumbled into financial difficulties. Half of our wealth stolen from us because a Melcom lass bedded an Arryn some years ago. Despite the wealth brought on by Lord Jon's investments we are still indebted. I beg of you to convince Lord Robert's regent to set things to rights."

"I will, so long as you arrange a marriage between your House and the Melcoms to ease any resulting tensions," Catelyn agreed easily. Incurring the wrath of House Melcom was well worth gaining more favour with the Waynwoods. They would become much stronger, more dependable allies too.

"I also wish for Lady Arya to take on at least several Ladies of the Vale as handmaidens. With her court whittled down to Lady Dustin it is a course of action that will not raise eyebrows. It is also vital that she begin forging such connections in these mountains. Immediately."

"Two at the least," Catelyn corrected, "I have been contemplating suitable candidates in the Riverlands as well." With that last discussion they all slipped away. Agreeing to meet with her and Arya the next day. Leaving Catelyn to stare at the throne which her grandsons would possibly inherit one day. Her rambunctious, younger daughter would likely become a High Lady of Westeros. The woman suddenly wondered how it had all happened so rapidly.

OOOO


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Eleven: May These Roots Grow Deep.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

Catelyn Stark relished being back in her childhood home.

This all went without mentioning the current state of rife intrigue at Riverrun. Catelyn was unsure of the wiseness in leaving Riverrun, or her father for that matter, unattended. Edmure, now the powerful Lord of Fairmarket, apparently often travelled to Riverrun to sort out the matter of ruling the Riverlands. Unfortunately Johanna Tully had gone into labor. Uncle Brynden was now serving as the regent of the East. The sickly, little Lord Arryn his new ward. Given that Sansa was nowhere near Harrenhal, Catelyn was the only one of Tully blood remaining. Apart from her sister of course, though Lysa hardly ever seemed quite handy given the circumstances.

"I _never_ could have fathomed something so chaotic residing in Riverrun when I was a girl," Catelyn Stark muttered firmly to Maester Vyman. They both walked along the battlements which allowed them to peer at the land for miles around. Lovely it was, though there was a wild nature to these rivers and woods that Catelyn had just brutally been reminded also applied to the tenuous stability of Riverland politics. "My only consolation is that Lady Johanna will have to soon suffer the consequences of this monstrosity that she created."

This all was in reference to the Assembly of Riverlords. She had stayed at the Eyrie long enough to witness the Blackfish's shocking marriage to young Briary Grafton of an increasingly powerful Gulltown's ruling family. While immensely beneficial to the tenuous grip he had initially held in the Vale it was undeniably shocking. All the Lady of Winterfell knew was that Sansa had spoken to her Uncle Brynden shortly before he had announced his intentions with glassy, lifeless eyes. That meant Riverrun was left unattended for a week at least. While he had attempted to rein control Maester Vyman did not wield enough influence to bring order to the Assembly. "I cannot believe they would dare try to settle a matter so contentious as land disputes while my father was indisposed!" Cat snapped with sudden ferocity. The Riverlords were an undeniably contentious bunch. "How can one region be so completely divided? The north, east, south, and west all seem determined to defy Riverrun at every turn."

"These are only the second sons too, my Lady," Vyman reminded her morosely. "Nothing has changed since your departure. All of the Lords still hide behind the walls of their keeps plotting against one another. There have never been enough Tullys born in any generation to settle such contentions with marriage alliances. Nor do I imagine it helped matters at all for your father's aspirations to have strayed so far from his bannermen."

"What was it that Lord Roote's decrepit uncle kept barking at me about?" Her brow wrinkled curiously, "Regarding Lord Lychester?"

A pregnant pause followed. "Since the Rebellion's end Lord Lychester has allowed his lands to run astray. He is broken without any sons to take control of such matters given that all of his heirs died fighting the Targaryens." Wide, old eyes blinked at her as they paused to lean against the retainer wall of the battlements, "Lords Bracken and Roote have pleaded ferociously with your father for years to give one of them control of Castle Lychester so they may wrest away control of those fertile lands. The issue is that House Blackwood has also begun to clamour for such a favour, but Riverrun cannot be seen as favoritizing three of its most prominent Lords."

"My father should have wedded his children to other Riverlords," Catelyn spoke slowly, contemplatively, "Rather than to a Stark, Arryn, and Rogare. Now is the time for me to prove I have learnt from that mistake while I am in charge of Riverrun."

"My Lady, you cannot mean to-." Maester Vyman was cut sharply short.

"Yes, I do intend to. Nor will Lord Lychester be able to refuse such an 'honor'. Especially when a fertile Tully woman, who managed to give a notoriously infertile _Arryn_ a child, has such a high chance of birthing a new Lychester heir." Blue eyes glimmered, "I cannot stay here much longer than two months. I miss my sons at Winterfell far too keenly. Though to leave Lysa behind without adequate supervision from another Tully is to ask for trouble. The woman is insane, and would cause a civil war with all of these squabbling nobles residing in Riverrun." She nodded at the Maester, "You will go tell Lord Lychester my intentions. Then that Piper cousin on the assembly shall be sent to rule over those lands as a regent before the Brackens, Blackwoods, and Rootes come to blows. Again."

She did not tell him the true extent of her plans before he scurried off. Lord Lychester would likely not live very long. That was when the Pipers would be given leave to wed Lysa to their own bloodline. Securing the Lychester lands, an alliance with House Piper for Riverrun, and keeping Lysa very far away from any position in which she could sow chaos again. Sighing, Catelyn rubbed at her pounding temples for a moment. Plotting had never left a thrill behind, but instead an aching heart full of anxiety and fear. Deciding to see to the neglected ledgers before visiting her sickly father the woman resigned herself to many more headaches over the next few months.

There were enough political matters to over see that her poor heart was already at a risk of failure.

OOOO

King's Landing reeked of shit and unwashed bodies. "I am sick of this stench," Sansa hissed at her sister as they walked arm-in-arm through the Red Keep. The pair of them had arrived in the city three weeks prior. Now they found themselves fleeing the army of Ladies-in-Waiting who were still unpacking the many belongings brought along.

"Agreed," Arya whispered back, "It is even worse in the city."

"Have you been going into the city alone again?" Sansa snapped seriously in her sister's ear. "Father will have your head if yo-."

"I have my own sword, and several daggers hidden on my person, sister," Arya bit back sharply. "After father started screaming that one night I also started asking some guards to travel with me." Only two days earlier Arya had returned in muddy trousers from a wild day in the markets of King's Landing with a bruised eye and breath reeking of mead. Their father threatened to force her into the Silent Sisterhood after she stumbled into dinner thirty minutes late in the aforementioned state of disarray. Of course, it was not just Arya who he unduly treated as a child. Sansa's plans to turn the ruinous Dragonpit into a charity project using her own soldiers as laborers was flatly rejected. The Hand had gone into a conniption after Arya manipulated King Robert into granting the future Queen of Westeros any necessary clearance. Then there was Bran.

"Wait," Sansa hissed in response as they ducked into the shadows. Standing in their line of sight was none other than Bran. Knocking on a door prior to being allowed inside. "Whose chambers are those that he just went into?" Her voice was like steel.

"Renly Baratheon's," Arya answered back in hesitant tone, "He has been drinking with Lord Renly and Ser Loras for a fortnight from what I hear."

"How could he possibly be interested in those two sodomites," Sansa snapped, mostly to herself, as they scurried back along on their journey out of the Red Keep. "Our brother is only eleven-years-old. Nor has he ever expressed any interest in other men before. We would have noticed, surely." Their younger brother was truly a strange specimen. He had proven himself clever and talented by scores while they were both delayed in the Vale.

First by performing with ease in the Tourney of the Hand a month earlier. Apparently the boy had been trained incredibly well in the Vale by the Royces. Using his unbelievable speed, from what they heard, Bran managed to defeat Meryn Trant, Bryce Caron, and numerous hedge knights in the melee. Then to an even greater amount of surprise he had won the archery challenge against a truly skilled man named Anguy of the Dornish Marches. Leaving him with a purse which rattled full of ten-thousand Dragons in prize winnings. The King now had Bran spending all of his guard rotations with him while he whored and drank into oblivion. Also gifting the boy with an expensive set of white-and-grey armour, along with an equally costly blade and a destrier.

Princess Myrcella offered Bran her favour for the tourney which he now proudly wore everywhere. Tommen Baratheon seemed to have fallen for such charms too as the awkward Prince could now be found practicing in the yards with his new friend. Then the lad had managed to somehow convince their surly, preoccupied father into naming him cupbearer for Small Council meetings. In less than a month Bran impressed Grand Maester Pycelle who had been continuing his education alongside Tommen and Myrcella. Given that he was in the pockets of House Lannister that was admittedly worth very little. Now it seemed that he was also ingratiating himself into the good graces of Renly Baratheon. Whatever the cost of such a feat was Sansa did not wish to know.

"Perhaps our brother has learnt on his own that security can have no cost too great," Arya remarked dryly. "Word is that he had several blistering arguments with Prince Joffrey while we were postponed. You know that if either of us were trapped here alone with that beast we would give Renly whatever he wanted for some sort of alliance. Especially if we happened to be a lad who will someday soon grow into a comely Knight."

"Do not remind me, sister," Sansa shivered at the reminder of her betrothed.

"Besides," Arya seemed to realize her error, and clearly tried to ease the tension with humour. "I know _exactly_ what you have been getting up to in the Riverlands. Many people in Westeros whisper of it."

"Suspicions are _not_ -," Sansa cut herself off with an embarrassed face.

"Precisely, Sansa," Arya chortled mischievously. They were still linked together, whispering. That was the only way to speak in the Red Keep given the number of spies that lurked about. Especially with how often their words devolved to the level of treason. "All that _I_ am willing to presume about Bran's questionable friendships is that he must have truly done splendidly well at that tourney. Perhaps I shall beat him in the fighting yards, and show everyone that he is not the only Stark of fighting prowess."

As anticipated the pair fell into an uneasy silence. Neither of them able to risk discussing something so sensitive as Sansa's display of sorcery at the Eyrie in a place like the Red Keep. All Arya had said of the matter was that she was, for the first time in her whole life, terrified of what risks her sister had taken. Soon enough they were free of the treacherous walls, but even as they tucked themselves into a carriage neither spoke of anything sensitive. As new as they were to the capital the trust of few servants could be called their very own. "On the topic of Bran," Arya remarked as the carriage rattled about through the streets of King's Landing, "I overheard father mentioning that Lady Stokeworth tried to arrange a betrothal between our brother and Lady Lollys."

"Oh, that poor thing," Sansa answered in response, "I am of half a mind to give Lady Lollys a spot in my court so that any possible marriage might be arranged." Her Tully eyes glimmered speculatively, "I have caught wind of five other betrothal offers. Bar Emmon, Sunglass, Rykker, Estermont, and unsurprisingly, the Freys." Both shuddered at the last House listed. "Father rejected them all." They chittered boredly for some time more about how high their little brother had risen. Until, of course, the carriage rattled to a halt and their destination popped into view.

The Dragonpit had been gifted in its entirety to Sansa by King Robert with no small amount of manipulation employed by Arya. Almost all of her army brought directly from the Vale had been redirected towards the task of working on its reconstruction alongside King's Landing's team of engineers. When fixed once more Sansa planned to use the structure to bathe, feed, and rehabilitate the sizeable homeless population. Also inside of the maze-like building would be hidden living spaces fit for any number of noble guests. These would serve as an excellent hiding place from Joffrey when things finally grew bad enough. Swallowing at the thought of her evil betrothed Sansa swept forth. "Have you yet secured those charts of the currently existing sewers in King's Landing?" She asked the Maester who had been dedicated solely to assist her ambitions.

"Yes my Lady," Maester Hollel nodded profusely, chains rattling earnestly. He hailed from House Paege of the Riverlands, directly sworn to the Tullys, which was why she had chosen him despite his lesser degree of training at the Citadel. Loyalty was a far rarer commodity than smarts. Soon enough the three of them stood beneath a makeshift tent with a table covered in papers. Engineers flitted about rapidly as they bustled back and forth into the Dragonpit. "These are the only city sewers. They are connected to what waste pours from the Red Keep, and heavily overwhelmed as a result."

"Spare any engineers you can to begin examining how we might improve the capacity of currently existing sewage systems. As well as to pinpoint the best places for new ones to be established." Sansa directed the obedient man. "How much of the homeless have you redirected towards the task of burying the filth beyond the city walls?" A clever idea of her's had been to pay the less fortunate and to get rid of the years of filth deposits which had built up at the same time.

"Nearly all. The crippled and useless, however, have been ignored." Maester Hollel spoke happily as though he deserved praise.

"No one is useless," Arya chimed in, "Do not forget that that very mentality is what caused this unbelievable stench to arise in the first place, Maester." He frowned at her briefly, but nodded his head like a lapdog nonetheless.

"We have managed to recover what broken stone was salvageable. The rest was sent to the shanty settlements to be donated towards finer homes for the less fortunate, as you requested, Lady Sansa." He continued, "Reparation of the dome began today. I must, however, show you the…. Artifacts we have recovered in the ruins."

"Before you do," Sansa said primly, handing him a scroll, "His grace signed this law into order for me yesterday. Please notify the City Watch. No longer will people be allowed to toss the contents of their chamber pots or rubbish bins out the window. The homeless will be tasked instead with carting it all out to the pits which have been dug." With that they all slipped into the dank Dragonpit. "Have the skeletons you find mixed in with the structure to reduce costs, Maester," Sansa directed as though she were born to oversee such matters, "They are decades unclaimed anyways, and will rest here as a symbol for the people. They defied the corrupt Targaryens. Now they will forever guard impoverished Smallfolk from harm. Spare any dragonbone from such a fate though, I have a separate idea for such valuable specimens."

"In fact," Arya cut across again, "Have a statue commissioned honoring their memories as well. Incorporated somewhere in the decorations."

"Splendid idea," Sansa agreed, "Now what other matters required my attention?" They were pulled further into the torchlight to see the massive space that had once housed dragons. What followed seemed to stress how kindness towards the Smallfolk only paid off in scores for those responsible. "Aerys Targaryen hid a stash of Wildfire _how large_ here?"

"Many barrels," The man answered in response, while both sisters stared at him with wide eyes. "What would you like for us to do with it all?"

"How many men have seen it?" Arya asked plainly, already thinking on the same terms as her sister.

"Only the three who found it." He spoke without any hesitancy.

"Wildfire is a rare commodity. If no one knows of it then I imagine we should not hesitate to take it for ourselves. Given that our men have done all of the hard work of stumbling upon such a cache."

"Yes," Sansa told the skeptical Maester. "Those men will not tell anyone other than my brother and Lady Shiera of what it is. They will set sail with it at the blackest part of night. All of them will be richly rewarded for such an undertaking. Besides, nothing good came of having so much Wildfire in this city the last time."

"Of course, my Ladies," He still seemed nervous about the situation though did not dare interfere with their plotting. "Many weapons and goods have been recovered from skeletons and in general. What will you have me do with them?"

"Send it all North alongside the Wildfire as a cover," Arya thought quickly enough of an advantageous excuse, "Our brother will be wedding Lady Shiera soon enough. Mark my words. That will serve as a suitable wedding present, at least for their armory I suppose." What neither of the sisters said was that Robb would surely most of the weaponry to the Rogares at a profit. They were still stockpiling for a coming confrontation with Braavos after all.

"There is also one more matter," He snapped prompting a servant to skitter forth from down a dank hallway. In his hands rested a bastard sword pressed into a pommel. "In the Storming of the Dragonpit, Ser Willem Royce died. This surely belonged to him, and was known by the name of Lamentation." With that he slid the sword free to reveal its proper glory. Valyrian steel with runes of the First Men inscribed across its glittering surface. The Stark girls had seen Ice enough times to recognize this for what it was. "Who would you have me deliver this to, my Lady? Perhaps Prince Joffrey?"

"No," Sansa gasped sharply, "I will give it to Arya. She is a fine warrior. Besides, such a blade will suit a daughter of the First Men." With that Arya Stark became the first wielder of Lamentation since the Dance of Dragons.

Sansa Stark could have sworn her little sister's eyes had never been more excited, or quite so wide as they were in that moment.

OOOO

"You are such a lovely thing, with all of your pretty little dresses," Queen Cersei smiled in her perpetually toxic manner, "My dove." That sort of tone always betrayed what she thought of Sansa. The ridiculous woman had treated her as no more than a child since she arrived in King's Landing. Even though the Lady of Harrenhal had accomplished more than Tywin Lannister's cunt of a daughter could only have dreamt of doing.

"More of a bat, truly. If we are to at all account for the Lady Sansa's banners." Joffrey Baratheon simpered nastily, making no secret of his distaste for the woman he was to wed.

Sansa sipped politely at her water in response. Wine was only for home, for safe places, she mused whilst removing her body from mind. Even then it was only to be consumed in careful quantities too. There were always those who were overly aspirant lurking in the shadows. Clever Lann, after all, had likely taken advantage of the Casterly's dulled wits, and she now suffered such poor company as a consequence. "I am much more of a direwolf, my Prince," She corrected carefully, "The bats of my banners merely serve to honor the Whents who served before me." Shiera had taught her much, that was true, though always did her mother's greatest lesson ring true.

"Before the Whents that same sigil served the likes of mad Danelle Lothston," Cersei downed another cup of Dornish red. "Do you honor her memory, my sweet dove?" _If only you truly knew_. Her green eyes smoldered like the wildfire they had sent to Winterfell several days earlier. Sansa's own fingers clenched momentarily, out of sight beneath the table, of course, whiter than the very precious mounds of dragonbone pilfered North as well. Tywin Lannister would have been better served teaching his daughter the slightest bit of courtesy rather than history. All claw and no armour, Sansa thought miserably.

"That is of no matter," Joffrey announced, cutting her off rudely, cruel eyes glimmering, "My Lady will soon by my Queen. Then I shall have all of her banners burnt, and Harrenhal placed under the rightful regency of a _man_. Until Lady Sansa gives me a spare son. That is when the stag shall be pinned atop those crumbling walls." She did not say that she would rather have burnt Harrenhal down with her own hands than see it pass to her 'better'.

"Speaking of sigils, Lady Sansa," Cersei gloated in a smugly cruel tone, "Joffrey has a gift for you." With a smattering of loud claps the foul bitch gestured violently for one of the servants to enter the chamber. On his arm rested a platter draped in a swathe of red cloth. Dishes were moved aside as the grotesquely bulging thing was settled in front of the Stark girl. Without a bit of patience the servant ripped the fabric away prior to sweeping out of the room silently. Sansa almost gaped with horror though she was too practiced to betray such an unflattering emotion. That did not mean the blood failed to stay in her face, however.

Starin- No. It no longer had the eyes necessary for staring. Weeping streams of crusted blood marred the already mouldering head of a wolf. With a pelt the same colour of Dream's. Fur shorn, gory bones showing at certain spaces, and formally regal jaw broken permanently open in a haunting manner. Crossbow bolts, the trademark of Prince Joffrey, could still be seen embedded all about the head. "I hunted the bitch down yesterday morning," Joffrey whispered in a gleeful sort of way, speaking to himself more than her, "She howled for a long while before the fifth bolt shut her squeals up."

"Your hunt yielded a fine meal, Joff," Cersei remarked like a casual lioness, "I found it rather tender. Almost better than venison." Sansa's blood had officially run cold. "Perhaps Lady Sansa should join you for the next hunt. I hear she can wield a bow and arrow, even if it is a distastefully unfeminine ability."

"She is far too busy with the filthy beggars and useless cripples who flood the streets." They were not speaking to Sansa, but about her. A rather common highlight in these regularly scheduled luncheons. "Though naught is much more unladylike than her little sister." Sansa would have bristled at his jibe of Arya if she were not so terrified by the thought of accompanying him on a hunt. He had already heard of her ability with a bow from court whisperings, no doubt, but Cersei had just deliberately put the thought in his sickening mind. Would she be forced to help torture innocent creatures like this little wolf?

"The 'Blue Rose of Winterfell' they call her," The Queen sneered semi-drunkenly, "I would think the title 'Bitch of Winterfell' more apt. Would you not agree Lady Sansa?"

"No I would not, your grace." Sansa stood without leave. Her blood was boiling. The insults had finally gone much too far. "My sister is a beautiful young woman. A more capable, more _honorable_ ," She sneered at Joffrey, "Warrioress Westeros has surely never before seen." Tully-blue eyes smoldered, "Never so blatantly defile the sigil of my Father's House again. Nor let me hear you speaking such intolerable ills of my sister. I tire of showing courtesy to those who would disrespect and belittle me so openly." Back as straight as ever she stared blankly at them both, "I beg your leave." Sweeping out of the room Sansa felt herself quivering like a leaf.

Perhaps it would be dishonorable to break a betrothal. Treasonous especially given that King Robert had all-but ordered it. Sansa no longer cared. She would rather spirit herself, Arya, and Bran into safe territory than ever bind herself to such a cruel family. Only a moon had passed since her arrival in King's Landing yet it seemed, as always, that the rumours held much truth. Naturally she found that her feet had carried her to the Tower of the Hand. Knocking upon her Lord Father's solar door the girl was relieved to hear him bid her entry. "Sansa," He did not look up from that book he had retrieved from Maester Pycelle several moons ago, according to Bran at least. Their father had grown obsessed with something. Often gallivanting openly about King's Landing to visit blacksmiths and even brothels. Only to refuse to tell his own children what was happening.

"I must break my betrothal to Prince Joffrey," She spoke firmly. Finally managing to gain the man's attention.

"What? Such a thing would be dishonor at its greatest?" He declared more than asked in a rather stern tone.

"I have been nothing but dishonored since arriving in the capital, Father!" Sansa finally exploded vitriolically at the clueless man. She was thankful to have sent the guards away to ward off any possible spies. "Unfortunately you have been far too busy with your silly, secret mission to notice!"

"Bran and Arya have been doing very well for themselves here," The Hand rebutted plainly. He had never respected the rank Sansa earned for herself in the South. Now it seemed she would have to flee for Essos to avoid wedding Joffrey.

"Out of necessity." She calmed herself for an important battle of wits with the Quiet Wolf. "Bran has been forced to consort with the most scandalous sorts of people for his own safety. Arya focuses on her lessons to avoid the court. As the only Stark present I have been relentlessly demonized by the Lannisters given that they blame our House for the disappearance of the Kingslayer."

"Why do you bother with courtly intrigue then Sansa, if you have clearly bitten off more than can be chewed?" He asked in a knifelike tone. Clearly wanting to focus again on the book spread open in front of him.

The anger bubbled back up again. "Are you asking a future Queen of Westeros, your daughter who will be trapped in this loathsome city one day to hide from the court?" Her voice was as cold as a blizzard. "I cannot help that the Queen and Crown Prince are too foolish to respect the influence I wield in three of the seven Kingdoms. Nor can I help that my own family is unable, or _unwilling,_ to aid me in fending them all off. Do you expect me to last in the Red Keep for the rest of my life without any assistance and no allies?"

"Such games are easier to steer clear of than to play," His remark left Sansa wishing she had her trusty bow in hand. Or one of the daggers pinned underneath her skirts.

"The game of thrones would certainly be much easier to win if you helped me in currying some level of support with the Small Council, father. Though you have never had much of a head for the grander picture unfolding beneath you." With a dismissive glare she turned to storm away.

"DO NOT DARE SPEAK TO ME IN SUCH A MAN-." The door slammed shut behind her.

Slipping upwards she wound up in her own chambers again. Tears streaming from both eyes in a torrent. She barred the door prior to collapsing on her bed. In all of her days of life Sansa had navigated the political world in semi-friendly territory with allies like Shiera to watch over her shoulder. Now she was friendless and struck with the ominous reminder that Starks did _not_ do well in foreign land. Even worse, Sansa had just allowed her Wolf's Blood to show, dominating any sensibility in dealing with the Queen and Prince. Their next meeting would begin from a position of great disadvantage. "Am I _really_ as clever as they all like to say?" She hissed angrily at herself. Head twisting prior to bumping into the metal ball that had been lying where she left it beside the pillows.

Sitting up suddenly, extremely glad for a distraction, Sansa Stark took the globe constructed by some long-forgotten Stark into both hands. A relic from when they had been Kings themselves. When winter had flooded their veins. Before southron weeds like the Lannisters dragged them down into the mud. Fingers twisting mindlessly she was horribly surprised by the loud click which suddenly cracked through the air. The ball had opened across the middle just enough for her to pry it open. Dust and floating cobwebs revealing one of her greatest delights in the whole world. Knowledge.

The ancient, long-forgotten kind too.

OOOO

Arya was free from court for the day at least. Not obligated to spend time on frivolous matters of fancy with King Robert who had been too busy with several whores that morning to summon her for their regular fast breaking. Nor did she have to visit the Dragonpit with Sansa given that her sister was preoccupied with Queen and Prince. No. She had a glorious day in the training yards. Though that did not mean the girl was alone. No. Prior to leaving the Vale her mother had forced upon her some of the most difficult Ladies-in-Waiting to have ever been born.

Myranda Royce clearly had a mark of control over the other women given her undeniable societal status in the Vale. Despite her humorous moments Arya was irritated by long bouts of unsolicited advice. Then there was Lelia Elesham, eldest daughter of the Lord of the Paps. Seventeen-years-old, a frame comparable to that of a willow, with thick black hair. She was quiet. Terrifyingly so, and Arya could tell that the young woman was clearly waiting for some slip of information that could be exploited.

Counterwise, Cynthea Frey, a niece of Lady Waynwood, was incredibly talkative with an inability to keep any secrets. Luckily for the fifteen-year-old girl she did not take after her Frey father in looks. Poor Jocelyn Dustin had struggled wretchedly to acclimate as well after so long as the only Lady-in-Waiting. Often butting heads with the much older Myranda Royce. To make matters worse the youngest daughter of House Stark had been forced to take Barbara Bracken and Bethany Blackwood into her collection. Needless to say, the two cunts hated one another as was to have been expected. Though it at the very least purchased favour from both of the ceaselessly warring Houses for Riverrun.

"Stop complaining, Bracken," Bethany Blackwood nearly snarled as she stabbed at a training post with surprising ferocity. "None of us are comfortable." Arya had been exasperated with her Ladies-in-Waiting sewing uselessly in the stands while whispering endlessly as they peered down at the 'handsome' men gathered about. She had felt no guilt in ordering them to partake in her water dancing lessons. Braavosi water dancing was an art one could not gain access to in the North, so the girl had decided to add it to her repertoire without any hesitation. Arya was also eager to see which of her Ladies were the most useful.

Barbara Bracken for instance, so completely out of her element, would be returned to mending and sewing for the duration of her tenure. With no aptitude or interest there was nothing Arya could do to convince the Lady that all women should at the very least be able to defend themselves. The others were more surprising. Myranda Royce was the gamiest of them all having donned boiled leather and taken quite quickly to practicing with the morning star. She was manipulative, however, and was probably doing it to gain favour with Harry Hardyng's unofficially betrothed. Lelia Elesham demonstrated the most aptitude with a natural talent at the spear. Having claimed to of fished along the coasts of the Paps with her father from an early age.

Jocelyn had been training Lady Bethany in the art of knife fighting which she had grown rather skilled at. Worshippers of the Old Gods, after all, tended to stick together. Arya had already decided that she would arrange a good marriage for the Blackwood lass in the North where she would be surrounded by like-minded First Men. Then there was Cynthea Frey. While Arya had decided firmly that she wanted nothing to do with the House of the Crossing it seemed that the girl would be a sole exception. She took to the sword with a great deal of interest. Using Arya's tiny, old one to gain muscle whilst practicing alongside Arya with all manner of instructors. Whether it was Syrio Forel, Aron Santagar, Thoros of Myr, or any number of more mildly amused warriors, Cynthea always tried her best. With everlasting eagerness to boot.

"Sister," Arya spun around after having just defeated Balon Swann, Jaime Lannister's replacement on the Kingsguard. The amused man had underestimated her ability, _and_ was the first to meet Lamentation. It had been no match at all. There stood Bran with Ser Barristan the Bold. Glancing to the left she recognized with growing dread that King Robert was now sitting in the stands. "Where did you get a sword like that?"

"It is certainly Valyrian Steel. Ser Balon's blade never stood a chance," The Bold remarked. Arya felt her muscles earned from three years of practice tense. Would they take it from her?

"If you can defeat me I will be more than glad to tell you," She withdrew the rune-inscribed blade again. Above them King Robert could be heard guffawing loudly at the turn of events. Lancel Lannister, always present, giving the drunkard an endless supply of wine.

"'Tis dishonorable to spar with a Lady, Brandon Stark," Ser Barristan interjected firmly.

"Not dishonorable if said 'Lady' gives him a shave first, Ser Selmy," Arya retorted fiercely. Arm whipping around she allowed the blade to whirl daringly several inches in front of Bran's throat. Her brother returned the mischievous smile prior to freeing his own steel. Barristan stepped back to watch with Cynthea, scowling with tight lips at the scene. Much time had passed since the pair of them fought against one another in Winterfell. Both of them had gained much more skill since, however.

The Squire's blade wobbled feebly against Arya's spell-forged blade. Parry, thrust, thrust, parry. For every move they were matched evenly. Bran had squared up on his bases with the Redforts and Kingsguard it seemed. Conversely, she was a hodge-podge of learnings all melded together into a unique style. It was a match of wills. Traditional orthodoxy versus a young woman who had learned from anyone willing to instruct her. In a fancy show of footwork Bran managed to thrust his blade towards her neck only for his sister to spin neatly away. Blade rising up in the air momentarily only to slam mightily against his weapon. The buckling which resulted forced him to retreat backwards. Both wolves circling one another with hungersome expressions.

Aided by a fitting snarl Arya danced into an elegant downwards slash. Bran met her though which brought things back to a draw again. For some time this match seemed to last. Growing tired the Stark daughter realized her time was not going to last much longer at all. He was too well-built now with the stamina to boot. Ducking into a fluid crouch she slapped his left leg with the bastard sword held in both hands. He toppled to one knee with his sword settling against her neck. A smirk flashed plainly upon his face until he realized that a dagger was poised in front of his undefended crotch. "You underestimated me brother," She grinned into his ear, "Again."

They separated with a hug which did naught to settle her bitterness. Men were always underestimating women, and she was sick of winning due to their folly. "You fight like Wenda Cafferen did," Ser Barristan spoke sharply after gesturing Bran away from the yard, "Without honour. Remember what happened to her." He stormed away to no doubt trade rotations with another Kingsguard. Or the man simply wished to privately chastise poor Bran for drawing against a girl.

"Whatever did happen to Wenda Cafferen?" Cynthea asked whilst sidling up alongside Arya. She shrugged before an answer could be given. "It is of little consequence. You have much honour, Lady Arya. Far more than a man like Ser Selmy could ever hope to match." Gentle fingers settled upon her shoulder. "You handle yourself and others with grace, dignity, and elegance. When we are old crones I swear to you that we shall visit his grave to snicker at how he spoke such injustices." Mousy hair was lit to a deep chestnut by the sparkling sun. Pretty blue eyes conveyed the most sincerity Arya had encountered since leaving home for King's Landing.

Perhaps she would not mind becoming friends with a Frey as much as she had once imagined.

OOOO

"Will you marry my brother one day?" Rickon asked with his usual untrained manners. The almost six-year-old Lord had paused to peer out of a great window from Winterfell. Below bustled many of the ten-thousand people in what was growing into a larger city with each passing day. Strong men hauling mounds of weapons and obsidian from the smithies and tunnels below Wintertown. Women sewing, cooking, or bustling about in general, whilst running affairs above ground for their men folk. Further out immigrant engineers who had recently finished constructing the sprawling tunnels now directed peasants in finishing the most recent curtain wall.

"You are asking the wrong question, Lord Rickon," Shiera corrected with a gentle smile, reaching down to brush stray curls from his forehead. " _When_ will I marry your brother is far more apt. No?" They moved on together from that spot, further up into the keep. Behind them Shaggydog intimidated away any serving wenches with his terrifying size.

Robb had been forced to travel west so that a peaceful transition could be ensured for the recently arrived Giants. Then there was the matter of many more at the Wall whom would soon need to be settled as well. The Great Bastard was tasked with looking after Winterfell in his stead. A lengthy castellanship given that her lover would be sailing from Sea Dragon Point to the Wall prior to returning. "Are you betrothed then? As I am to Osiria Magnar?" He rephrased his question. Rising to the challenge.

"Your brother is a man grown. Capable and wise. He has decided on his own that a marriage between us will one day be beneficial. Soon our mutually agreed upon engagement shall be declared aloud. As soon as the ravens fly, and contracts have been signed, we will be betrothed." The woman did not bother to lower her voice. Such news was commonly suspected throughout the North now. Only a woman possessing of Robb Stark's absolute trust would have been left in charge of his seat and youngest brother.

"Oh." He paused speculatively, "Do you miss your mother and father?" That matter had been weighing heavily on the young Stark lad since the departure of his family. Shiera had ignored his wild behavior until Robb left him as her ward. With no small amount of effort she retrieved him from the Crypts with a tamed Direwolf in tow. Accomplishing a task many seasoned guards had failed at in no more than a day. Now Rickon dutifully followed her everywhere with cut hair and presentable clothing always on.

"My father was an unwise man. He loved me, I suppose, though not in the way Lord Stark cares for you. Take comfort in knowing that your father shall never use you as a weapon, or try to sell you to the highest bidder. One day you will be a great bannerman of the North with a fine keep, and a beautiful bride." Her face darkened as Rickon peered up at her. "Lord Stark would never threaten to wed any of his own children."

"What about your mother?" The boy asked after a very long period of silence. Even at his young age he could tell that there was a great deal of dark blood between Lady Seastar and her long deceased father.

A coldness spread between them. Not the sort that came on freezing nights when the snows piled high beneath Winterfell's walls. More like sunny days spent in meadows when clouds closed upon those frolicking below. Happy, yet sad. "My mother died when I was born." A wistful expression crossed the woman's face. Rickon thought she had never looked so lovely before. So painfully real. "She visits me in my dreams. Tells me what I am doing right or wrong. Everything I hunger for comes from the lips of that specter I have never been so blessed to meet." Fingers curled gently into his locks as they stepped into her solar. "Mothers never forget, or leave their children behind. Even the cruellest ones cannot escape thinking of their babes. Lady Catelyn is no exception, my little Lord."

With that she went to sit at her desk while Rickon knelt in front of the hearth to stroke at Shaggydog's fur. Pondering the things his brother's soon-to-be-betrothed had said to him. Many people of varying degrees of import visited during that time of childish reflection. Between inner ramblings he discreetly paid rapt attention to Lady Shiera's dealings. 'Patient observance is a man's finest sword,' Sansa had once said to him. There was Maester Luwin who had stopped to ask about their trip to Wintertown that morning to check on planned expansions of sewers. A squat woman arrived with a menagerie of comely youths prompting Shiera to take him onto her knee. They observed as the beautiful men and women disrobed prior to sending the chosen few off to a 'brothel.' What followed their departures was a brief lesson on how to properly manage such establishments. As well as a glimpse at the tax reports of a vastly improving, Northern sex market.

Then a messenger bearing news of Theon Greyjoy's imminent, unannounced, visit to Winterfell interrupted Rickon's lesson. In no time at all he was busy learning instead how to hastily prepare a keep for the visit of an important guest. Unaware of the fact that Shiera Seastar was shaping him just like she had shaped all of his other siblings.

OOOO

"Wisdom Roarke," Came the squeaking voice of his acolyte, "Wisdom Malliard has asked me to convey a message to you." The timid boy of ten-and-three slipped free of the shadows. He had come to them tan with bright eyes. Unfortunately, the dark, ominous Guildhall had stripped him of such luxuries. Now the acolyte was sickly pale with a tangle of black hair. Fingertips blackened by the dangerous materials he had been bidden to work upon.

"Speak." Roarke did not suggest. His voice was firm with a fiery undertone. That firm, masculine tenor had earned him much respect. Accordingly, a clever mind gained the young Wisdom high rank in the Alchemists' Guild.

"A woman has visited with Wisdom Hallyne. She has been speaking at length with him in his study. Wisdom Malliard told me to warn you that the Lady will be sent here soon." The stuttering answer was whispered out while both eyes were averted towards the stone floor. Useless as always. No details regarding what woman of Noble birth could possibly be so special to capture the interest of Wisdom Hallyne.

"Inspect each and every Wildfire chamber tonight," He looked back to his papers, "Then go to sleep. I have many errands set for you in the morning that must be completed by the next sunset." With a bow the useless boy scurried away. Leaving his master to wonder what exactly was headed his way. An hour passed until finally he was visited again. "Enter." Soft knocks dissipated as Wisdom Malliard opened the door to allow in a hooded young woman. Moving quickly the lower ranked man handed his superior a sealed letter prior to fleeing the chambers soon after. "Sit, my Lady," He gestured to his strange visitor. Pulling away at the seal. Silver eyes scanned firmly through the words with rising disbelief until finally the parchment was set aside. "Forgive me, Lady Stark," He managed to utter in a more subdued manner, "If I have trouble believing the High Wisdom's words."

With a flick of her wrist Sansa Stark pushed the hood back to stare at him with blue eyes. Deep as the Narrow Sea. Like pools of crisp, clear, springwater from his childhood home. Ruby red lips tugged into a wicked sort of smile. Auburn hair as dark as the deep flames that Wisdom Roarke had always been so fascinated by hung loosely across her back. An emerald coloured gown clung elegantly to a willowy, statuesque form. She was only several years younger than him at most, and the Wisdom had never consorted with such a beautiful creature before. Lady Stark flicked her wrist causing the candle in front of him to sputter out. With a swift snap the wick rose again, seemingly brighter than before. "You should be capable of believing me now."

They regarded one another for a long while. Him rubbing anxiously at the midnight-black scruff of his tan face. Her simply lounging in the seat across as though she owned it. "Such control over fire have not been observed since the dragons died out. Apart from rumours in Essos." He remarked simply. "How can I even begin to be of service to someone clearly so much more adept than myself?"

"The letter should say it plainly enough. In exchange for a chance to observe my abilities, you will train me during agreed upon evenings. When no one is any the wiser to where I am." Her voice was like steel. Roarke felt his breathing stiffen as she moved further into the rays of moonlight. "One day the Alchemists' Guild shall find an ally in the Queen. The greatest foothold into royalty your order will have gained since Mad Aerys."

"You wish to learn it all? Brewing of wildfire, how to control your gifts, all of our secrets?" He asked sternly in response. She simply nodded in response. "Then give me something you truly treasure. Only then can we begin your instruction." With hesitancy the young Lady fumbled at her wrist. Then without any pause Sansa Stark placed the bracelet into the man's outstretched hand. "Come back whenever suits you. There is much to be learned, Lady Stark." Pulling her hood over beautiful head the young woman left for the Red Keep.

Leaving Wisdom Roarke to ponder why a Northern Lady would have been carrying two Valyrian Gods of old on her person.

OOOO


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen: The Winds Begin to Blow.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

"Want some little Noble honey?" A whore propositioned Bran as they slipped along the dirty streets. Jiggling tits barred for easy access. Face heavily painted. Grey hair clumped in knots. "Please m' little Lord? I'd give up my left cheek to break in the Hand's son!" One of those hands reached out grasp at Bran's tunic. One of the five Stark guards knocked the woman back causing her to crash into the wall behind. He turned back chuckling only to find himself stared down by Arya.

"You think you are a funny little fucker, no?" Her head of brown curls twisting, enthrallingly grey eyes. The guard said nothing as the crowds continued to mill about their party. His comrades shifted uneasily, for when Arya Stark raged it was preferable to face the entire pack of Direwolves. "My father is the Hand of the King. A King, may I add, we reside in this foreign city at the pleasure of. If it was not acceptable to beat innocent women in the streets of Winterfell then it was certainly not acceptable here. You two!" She pointed at the burliest guards. "Escort him back to the Red Keep. A fortnight in the Black Cells should prove sufficient pennance." Without pause they disarmed him, dragging the bewildered Northman away. "Are you well, madam?" Arya assisted the sputtering whore upwards.

"I've taken a fine right number of beatings in my time, milady," The older woman winced whilst standing up. One half of her face was already turning a deep, bruised colour. "My life has been about surviving. Even though men like that keep knocking me down." Bran was still staring surprisedly at his sister's unexpected interference. "Never has a little Lady 'elped poor old me afterwards though." The prostitute began to move alongside them as their two remaining guards flanked against any possible threats. Arya did not fear having so few guards. Bran could fight, the whore probably knew a few tricks, and she herself had Lamentation.

"Our man mistreated you. It was our responsibility to remove such a volatilely tempered guard from our Lord father's company…. Madam?" Her uncertainty caused the woman to chuckle mirthfully.

"I haven't been a madam for a while now. Treat me like the lowdown whore I am. The name is Maurella." She reached up to boldly pat Bran on his cheek. Even at eleven the lad was taller. He shied away in a discomforted manner. "Knew you Stark children were good buns. That father 'asnt done much, but you lot have. The Pisswater Bend has never smelt so good. Sweet Lady Sansa is already helping the beggars off these streets and cleanin' the shit from the streets. Your dearie brother 'ere buys peasants Bowls o'Brown on Warrior's Days. Even you volunteer with those little hun's at the orphanages."

"We try to do what we can. Smallfolk at Winterfell are treated much better than they are in the south," Arya reasoned humbly, "Did you say you were once a madam? Of your own brothel?"

"Aye," The coarse woman agreed in her throaty tenor, "I rightly was. Owned my own house of flesh along the Street of Silk. The biggest behind Chattaya's. The King himself visited us almost daily. Good at sums from a young age I was, and that little brothel was turning out a large profit. Until that bastard shit Master of Coin decided he wanted me livelihood. I reckon the cunt really wanted to control King Robert's favourite whores though." Blue eyes took on a pained look, "The Gold Cloaks kicked me out at night's blackest with nothing but these clothes on my back. Like that I went from minding after sixty whores to sucking cocks for a penny a score."

"My governess taught me to never judge anyone by their appearance. She often said that I had a sharp eye for picking out those with wasted potential." Arya stared firmly at the woman as they traversed the fish markets. This prostitute indeed had much wasted potential. Admiration for the Starks, hatred for Littlefinger, and a knack for running successful businesses was a difficult combination to find. "You are special, Madam Maurella. That much I could see the moment you rose back up after that guard struck you. I implore you to follow us on an errand today. There may be an opportunity for you to rise high again." The whore had not much choice. They both were well aware that she would probably die within the year at how quickly her circumstances had changed. With a simple nodded all talking ceased. Despite a discomforted look, Bran seemed eager to see what his sibling had planned.

They slipped further into the fish markets prior to stopping in front of a large manse. Poorly located, yes, but clearly difficult to take if properly guarded. "My Lady Stark," A rotund man with cheery cheeks stood between the opened gates. He waited until they all approached, except for the guards. "This is the manse I was telling you of. Richly decorated, recently built. Confiscated by the crown from a fish merchant who had been smuggling off of Westerosi ships."

"Are the ships also being sold?" Arya asked in response.

"Two. The others were either not confiscated or-." He was cut off.

"My brother has brought coin. He shall be the one purchasing this residence as well as those two ships." She spoke succinctly.

"Arya," Bran protested, "I will do no such thing. You have dragged me here, and I have no idea what-." A single stern look shut the younger boy up as he grudgingly withdrew under half of his winnings from the Tourney of the Hand. "You go with him to count out these Dragons," The boy directed the nearest guard.

"Please Harwin," Arya corrected her brother's dismissive rudeness with regardful kindness. Wondering mentally how much of Bran's ill manners had been learned in the south. Shiera had taught them all to value those below them. Loyalty to their father did not necessarily extend to them automatically. As the two moved to go inside the sprawling manse she turned to the other guard, "Fetch thirty-five of my sister's finest men. Ten spearmen, twenty swordsmen, and five archers. Kindly bring them here to act as guards until they are told otherwise." He nodded with a mumbled 'yes ma'am' prior to scurrying off.

"Where do I fit into this all, milady?" The grizzled whore asked whilst staring warily at her. Now that the three of them were finally alone.

"It is quite simple, Madam Maurella," Arya folded both arms behind her back.

"Is it really?" Bran echoed in a disbelieving tone.

"Yes. This manse will become a brothel. Run by our new friend and ally, Madam Maurella. A rather convenient crossing of paths which will save me from having to search through semi-loyal candidates." She smiled winningly as Bran's face turned white. Grey eyes focused squarely on the older woman's haunted pair of blue. "You will be given the funding necessary to establish one of the finest brothels in King's Landing. In a week I shall personally review your efforts to determine whether they are satisfactory. In the meantime there is another thing to be considered," She pulled a paper from her trouser pocket which was handed to the new Madam. "Lure these names through these doors. Give them services Littlefinger never would have dreamt of. You will be rewarded well in the future if you manage to do as I just asked."

"What of girls?" Her body may have been caked in filth, but that face glimmered with reborn plots.

"I have already secured suitable ones. They will arrive here this evening to begin work immediately." Arya tilted her head as though peering into Madam Maurella's soul. "Both of those Stark guards have previously been instructed that they will flank you permanently. Every action you take will pass beneath their gazes. Do not betray the trust I have put in you, Madam." With that the girl spun back around to step into the streets again. Bran scurrying behind her quickly.

"Arya, you are using a brothel to plot against the Master of Coin?" Bran asked in guarded voice. At the very least he knew well enough to whisper in the chaotic streets of King's Landing.

"No." She felt how tight her throat was. Her brother had proven his cleverness in securing a base of powerful friends. That was it. The boy lacked any inkling of what it meant to surpass those powerful allies. "I am using the brothel as bait. Each of Littlefinger's Keeper of Keys will die strange deaths within the month. The Harbormaster will simply disappear at some point in between. Father will be given a prompting by King Robert to install Stark friendly allies in those positions. Those loyal supporters shall then replace each of the corrupt puppets Baelish has propped into any positions while he climbed to prominence." Her strong, wiry frame suddenly lunged when no onlookers were present. "Corrupt Small Council officials can only be stopped by corrupt dealings in turn."

Stepping away she watched as the taller boy rubbed at his bruised windpipe. Slipping away from the shadowy alcove wall to glare petulantly at her. "You can be a downright cunt sometimes Ar-."

A dagger was poised to the boy's throat in mere seconds. "Did the Royces teach you that pretty little word? Did they tell you to call any woman, even your _own_ sisters, cunts when they step out of line?" Her voice grew less patronizing and more dangerous, if that was possible. "If you can serve the insults, then you should be able to take them back. You are a petty, misguided, uneducated, fuckface. I am ashamed to call you my brother." Her lip curled back, "Our sister is set to wed a psychotic monster, and you dare to question my treachery against _Petyr Baelish_?"

"He advises King Robert to agree with all of Sansa's proposals when the Small Council discusses them! Why would any sane person attack him?" Bran rebutted indignantly. Clearly the fight had not left him entirely. The nasty backhand Arya thrusted into his face seemed to have done an adequate job of sapping anything that had been left.

"That little goat shagger likes to whisper into the ears of powerful men that he defiled both our Aunt Lysa and mother! He speaks to Sansa like she is a malleable child he can roast on a spit. As though she is a naive babe that can be easily stolen from the crib." Her brother seemed to have gained some comprehension. Finally. "Even Rickon knows that you never trust in anyone's appearances. Baelish is a traitorous snake. We must cut away at his strength before he realizes what has happened. Then Pycelle, and the Spider will follow closely behind. Only if Starks wrest control of the city from House Lannister will Sansa ever be safe in Joffrey Baratheon's bed." Her pretty face twisted with a full-bodied shrugged, "Besides. If things ever turn to shit we need a spot near the ports to hide our belongings."

Slipping away the girl began to storm back towards the Red Keep while her brother followed dazedly behind.

OOOO

The Riverrun Sept was a mess, but those rainbows still shined from the windows. Hitting Catelyn's face as though she were a child again. Breathing deep, reassured breaths, those blue eyes finally opened. Cheap flowers purchased from discounted peddlers had been strung hastily all about. Bits of garbage from _many_ attendants littered the floors. Already serving maids scurried about trying to clean the mess while noises indicative of a very loud feast could be heard nearby. The acting Lady Paramount of the Riverlands did not care to visit that particular extravaganza. Such a thing would make her feel even more monstrous than she already did.

How mightily Lysa resisted the wedding could hardly have been put into words. Screaming, clawing, biting, and other traits of demonic interference. Maester Vyman had been forced to drug the youngest Tully daughter heavily. Barely conscious the woman had then been guided firmly down the aisle to exchange foggy-faced nuptials with Lord Lychester. Now they were likely an hour or so away from filling Lychester Castle with its newest heirs. What was worse though was that Lysa would never be free again. A Piper cousin was already lined up to replace the decrepit Lychester Lord. Then in case he died prematurely Catelyn had already determined that the Silent Sisterhood would prove the only viable option remaining.

Slipping away, jostling the bundle in her arms, she cooed gently downwards. "Do you wish me to take the babe to the nursery, milady?" A frumpy maid asked while passing by.

"No," Catelyn eyed the messy Sept pointedly, "Focus on mopping the floors." Slipping free of the building she spied upon her mother's old gardens happily. They had previously been allowed to grow wild during her tenure as the Lady of Winterfell. Now every plant had been immaculately groomed by the Tully gardeners. "One day these will be your gardens. You will take your babes to breathe such fresh air as I have for you today. My sweet ward." A gentle kiss to one of those soft cheeks caused infantile giggles to erupt loudly in the air. Only three weeks had passed since Ermesande Hayford was deposited beneath her care in Riverrun. Ser Hogg, a vassal of the Hayfords, had negotiated a betrothal with Edmure's recently born son, Tristifer Tully.

The knight of Sow's Horn also tasked her with raising the girl in Winterfell where powerful friends could be made. Clever of him, though Cat suspected that Sansa had been meddling again. Hayford was likely a highly desirable target to House Lannister's greedy chops. By securing this alliance a massive chunk of the Crownlands would now belong to House Tully. That also meant that in a region of resentful Targaryen loyalists she would have a dependable ally. "You will learn the value of a woman's touch, of course." She cooed lullingly as the babe slipped into sleep. Of that the Lady was certain though she could not pretend Ermesande would ever master such matters. Even now Catelyn Stark found herself still learning exactly what a woman was capable of accomplishing on their own. Good for soothing husbands, yes, but that was far from it all.

Her ailing father had long believed that she was destined to have been his only heir besides Lysa. Before Edmure was born he trained her like he would have any son. All of Catelyn's ruthless administrative talents originated from the man. They were, of course, part of what caused Ned to appreciate and fall in love with her. Though she was beginning to realize that her father imparted more than just the skills needed to keep a household orderly. She could see the issues plaguing the Riverlands as clear as day. In her short tenure alone the woman managed to even quell some of the ones closest to Riverrun. The babe in her arms was proof enough of that. With such realizations Catelyn began to resent Edmure despite her better judgement. Still, the mental accusations rang loudly in her psyche. He was a useless man. So preoccupied by shiny things that he had spent a month at Fairmarket whilst their unruly vassals fought for control of Riverrun.

Approaching the large doors of Riverrun she finally handed a gently sleeping Ermesande off to one of the serving girls. Unsurprisingly, Maester Vyman found her not long after. "Your sister has been bedded by Lord Lychester, my Lady." He bore red cheeks after presumably bearing witness to an unpleasant bedding ceremony.

"Are we prepared to move her to Lychester Castle tomorrow at first light?" Catelyn asked. Hopefully the Riverlords would be too drunk to notice such a sight as Lysa's undoubtedly insane departure.

"Yes, my Lady. She is properly packed." He paused, "Your brother has also signed the betrothal contract between young Lord Tristifer and the Lady Hayford." That likely meant Johanna Rogare had come back to her senses. Allegedly the birth was quite a dangerous time for the young mother. Catelyn wondered cynically if her goodsister would prove to be the kick Edmure needed to return to Riverrun.

"Wonderful." She responded flatly as they neared her father's solar. Maidenpool was secured by Moredo Rogare. Pinkmaiden, Lychester, Trident's Gate, Fairmarket, Stoney Sept, Hayford, Harrenhal and Seagard were all dependable allies at that present time. For another generation at least, she amended mentally. That left the Rootes, Vyprens, Blackwoods, Brackens, Darrys, countless others, and of course, the Freys. A significantly less powerful faction of Lords with the Sunset Canal dynamic now existing to be sure, though still enough that Catelyn feared they could one day muster a sizeable rebellion. Tensions were certainly high enough that it was mind boggling how Riverrun had been spared such a fate.

They parted ways as she slipped into her father's solar. Trying to enjoy how little paperwork remained to be dealt with. Many matters had needed seeing to upon Catelyn's arrival. Entire ledgers of illegible numbers with absolutely no sense to them. Her father's mind had clearly been deteriorating at least five years prior to that present moment. More concerningly, it seemed that many Riverlords were behind on taxes, loan payments to Riverrun, and even shipments of grain. "Edmure, you fool." Her brother was the heir. He should have realized just how poorly their father was. Now it was down to her to resolve this matter. If either of the Rogares interfered it would only add to Edmure's reputation as an inept lackwit, and cause resentment of the powerful foreigners to disseminate.

Staring down at the shortened ledgers she eyed just how much was owed House Tully. Only for an unwelcome visitor to arrive with the barest of knocks as warning. "Lady Stark," Black Walder Frey spoke stiffly. He was muscular with a face that could not be called unfortunate, but not handsome either. Once this very same man had pursued her as a possible marriage prospect. Thankfully her father had managed to secure the Starks. Only three years ago Walder Frey had even sent a letter to Winterfell expressing Black Walder's interest in wedding Sansa. That particular message had gone right on the fire immediately after with no response.

"Lord Frey," She did not bother to keep any iciness from her tone. He sat in front of the desk at the beckoning of her wrist. "May I ask what matter you need to discuss away from the assembly? Especially when the servants have extended so much effort to prepare a wedding feast?"

"I could not help but notice your absence following the exchange of vows. Given your occupation with Riverland matters I imagined it was an opportune time to pass along a letter from the Twins to you." He handed her the aforementioned piece of parchment with a broken bridge seal. "My Lady." All propriety the man ever yielded was reluctant, and added as an afterthought. Peering away from him she tried not to tense.

' _Lady Stark,_

 _I have long been willing to allow certain matters pass the Crossing by. No matter how mismanaged these rivers have become during, dare I say lacking, Tully leadership Though upon learning of your recent efforts in wedding the former Lady Regent of the Vale to Lord Lychester those times are gone. Only a fortnight ago was I negotiating dowers for a betrothal with that harried and done Ser. My own end of the betrothal contracts signed with his set to be delivered._

 _Until your glorious return to Riverrun._

 _Truthfully, I should have seen such an event occuring. You Tullys know how to net the juiciest fish. Your House merely sneers and the Lords so feeble-minded as Lychester have no choice but to wed deranged madwomen such as your sister. Never mind the obligation he was contracted into with myself. Never mind that I have many sons and grandsons who were many times over just as suitable for the new Lady Lychester. Never mind that I am one of your most powerful bannerman. I tire of the boorish, old insults whilst my lands face challenges abound._

 _The Crannog-scum encroaches further upon my lands every passing day. Wantonly peddling their filthy wares, and corrupting my peasants with savage mannerisms. From atop her righteous hill the Great Bastard sorceress commits atrocities unchecked. All while allowing foreign filth from every backwater corner of Essos to pour across the Green Fork. Not a single Dragon sent my way from her share of the taxes. In all of this time you father, uncle, and brother have done nothing. Too preoccupied with handing all of their authority over to the Rogares. Throwing my relationship with the Iron Bank away in the process._

 _I will no longer wait for the Tullys to act._

There was no signature to the defiant letter. Catelyn needed no such marker though. Walder Frey's poisonous words proof enough of who had written it. She believed wholeheartedly that if she marched an army north for the Twins with such rebellious words in hand as evidence he would simply claim a Maester had stepped out of place. "What do you think, Lord Frey," She set the letter aside while staring with steely eyes at him, "It will take to make your father happy?"

"The Crannogmen must be removed from the Riverlands and recompense us for the trouble caused, Lady Seastar must pay us taxes, and a betrothal with one of your children. Perhaps Lady Arya." He was audacious and imbecilic at the same time. Clearly unaware of just how strongly Catelyn's temper was raging beneath the surface.

"Perhaps those things could have been arranged. Had your Lord father not stolen from Riverrun." A hand lifted the parchment of monies owed to House Tully into the air. "A loan payment of two-thousand dragons which the treasury have not seen heads or tails of for nearly two years. In addition to any interest that has accumulated on that sum, your father has been skimping on his taxes."

"I delivered the last taxes myself," Black Walder glared at her, though he was not his father, "Do not dare attack my integr-."

"Your Lord father's integrity was the matter of discussion. Please do try to keep up." Her voice spoke with a frosty tenor. "He was short on grains, livestock, and coin yielded. Perhaps it is because he has begun to circulate a standing force of six-thousand Frey soldiers along his borders. So as to better intimidate Lady Seastar, Lord Mallister, and Lord Reed. I would never dream of wedding my daughter into a House of thieves and upstarts who try their best to start trouble." Not to mention that Arya would one day be the Lady of the Vale. "Your father was too late to help my own father defend the Trident twenty years ago. Yet now that he suddenly cares for the integrity of _our_ rivers I am to do his bidding?"

Black Walder opened his mouth. Only for it to close rather quickly. "No, Lord, your House has simply forgotten that its place is beneath mine own. How impressive will those six-thousand men seem when I march the full force of Riverrun, Winterfell, Lys, and the Vale to your precious Crossing?" She stood, he followed suit though the Noblewoman did not flinch at his considerable height. "I am not the Laughing Lion. The Late Lord should not think me fool enough to marry any of my children to his bloodline. That is a shame for the Lannisters alone to carry." The fool reached for his sword only for the Lady to scream, "GUARDS!"

They burst within, nearly turning the heavy door to splinters in the process. Black Walder fought viciously as she pressed herself back into the wall away from flashing steel. One of the Tully men was permanently crippled while his comrade managed to knock the Frey into unconsciousness. Unsurprisingly Maester Vyman visited her in the nursery later after having tended to the unfortunate victim of her pissing match with Black Walder. Hands still stained with red he stared with wide eyes. "My Lady, the representatives of the Assembly have suffered a disturbance within the hour," He whispered, clearly trying not to wake Lady Ermesande who was resting gently in her cradle.

"I am unsurprised. My better judgement told me that provoking Black Walder would also trigger a response from Jon Wylde. The Vyprens do follow the Late Lord in their every move after all."

"My Lady," The old man looked gravely serious, "Yes, the Vypren representative had to be subdued, but he was not the only one. After his outburst he was followed by Dafyn Vance, a likely heir to Wayfarer's Rest, and the Darry knight who was sent to look after the young Lord's interests. After it was revealed that the fight was caused by the matter of long unpaid loans to Riverrun's coffers matters worsened further. Marshal Mooton, Dalton Blanetree, and the Lolliston cousin all fled Riverrun by a downriver barge."

"Have the order dispatched that they are all to be brought back here and placed in our dungeons." She addressed his concerned face, "No need to fret over these matters, Maester Vyman. I have long planned upon instigating such a situation. Those Houses all owe Riverrun a great deal of debt. At a time when we are so close to paying off what little is still owed to the Rogares."

"What of the enmity of House Frey?" The bewildered man stuttered out in response. "Their ties run deep through these lands. Nearly half of your father's bannermen are related to them in some way."

"If the life of Black Walder is not worthwhile enough to repay us what we are owed then perhaps my brother will need to march soldiers north to further get the message across." They had slipped away from the crib so that slightly louder voices could be used. "In the meantime I need for you to send letters to all of those Houses. Explaining exactly why their relatives have been arrested or are fugitives of the law. Telling everyone who owes House Tully that we shall be paid back by the next moon's ending." He nodded as she handed him the list of names and amounts before leaving. Both of them understood how precarious these new events were. Tywin Lannister had quelled his rebellion by taking hostages. Effectively preventing the Tarbecks and Reynes from coalescing a stronger resistance. The same applied to this situation as well.

Catelyn moved to peer out of the window at the lands surrounding Riverrun. Lands that would need to be settled as much as possible before she could ever dream of leaving.

OOOO

Theon Greyjoy croaked as he sat up suddenly. The taste of stale iron coated the back of his throat. A pain erupted along his abdomen with that sudden movement. Hissing through cracked lips he fell back whilst rubbing at his incredibly dry face. "We nearly lost you, Lord Greyjoy," Shiera Seastar's terrifying voice prompted his exhausted eyelids to snap back wide open. Beautiful as ever with those veiled eyes that hid all of her dizzyingly dangerous machinations. No matter how much he had grown to love Andarra he could not help but remember how masterful a plotter the Great Bastard was. Sucking up the pain he forced himself to sit up straight. For her part, the Targaryen seemed duly impressed. "You have grown bounds, my Lord. The boy I met after first awakening in those Crypts never would have survived such an ordeal."

"I do not remember what occurred," He admitted through gritted teeth. More bothered at putting himself under her mercy with regards to the accurate dispensation of needed knowledge than from actual pain. If any of his men were still alive they would certainly need to be consulted later. This treacherous viper could not be trusted by a single word. She surprised him by moving forth to sit at his side. Gently, almost tenderly, wiping at his awfully scratchy face with a nearby balm. Not a viper, he realized suddenly, but a fire breathing dragon. The most lethal representation of her familial sigil any Targaryen who ever lived could have dreamt of matching. At that realization he recognized why Robb Stark had grown so deeply enamored with the woman.

"You were escorting four new Giants south to assist with the construction of a settlement on the White Knife. Along with ten Skinchangers." Shiera Seastar eyed him, "A host of three-hundred men were travelling with you. Half were slaughtered in an ambush by bandits."

"Bandits?" Theon snarled disbelievingly, "We both know the Boltons did this."

"Of course we know the truth of it." The Lady of Trident's Gate nodded, "But Lord Bolton has been nothing but clever. He dresses his men as Wildlings, or raiders by the sea. Lord Karstark following his lead."

"This time they struck on Stark lands. Not in the Gift," Theon rebutted sternly, "We cannot allow them to think Winterfell's interests can be thwarted by 'bandits.'"

"Once Lord Robb has returned we can share your frustrations with him. I imagine we will need to accelerate this situation with the Boltons. If it is ever to be resolved in this lifetime." Her face only betrayed the emotions she wished for him to see. "All men act in predictable ways when pressure is put upon them. Perhaps if we cut at their purse strings a peasant revolt will set the way of things back into order." Now a wicked glimmer flashed in those eyes prior to being reined in.

"What of my cargo?" Theon asked with unveiled nervousness at this point.

"Rest assured, Lord Greyjoy. The Giants all arrived here alive, and demolished the attacking force. Each of the Skinchangers were released by a desperate Wildling when the battle started off with such an awful ambush. With the aid of their familiars and the chained Giants you lived to hear this news." She crooked her head at him. "It seems to have done a great deal of good for morale to introduce a common enemy. All ten Skinchangers now wear Stark colours. The Giants helped us to finish the new walls of Winterfell during your sleep. I have sent them with heavy guard to begin construction of a new project on the White Knife."

The door opened at that moment to reveal Maester Luwin. "I asked you not to pester him, Lady Seastar," He was cool in his speech. It was no secret in Winterfell that Luwin distrusted her. Behind him the handsome Sam Codd peered over the old man to flash a devilish grin at him. Only a moon earlier he had finally gotten the lad into bed with himself and Andarra. Perhaps his injury would be what was necessary to get Lord Codd to finally agree to a bit of rutting.

To her benefit the Great Bastard did not respond with anything other than warmth to Luwin's antics. "Of course, Maester," She smiled demurely, "I must be seeing to young Rickon anyways."

"Perhaps to expose him more to the running of brothels and whore selection," He bit back shortly.

She simply spread her arms. "Just because you are unable to enjoy the wonders of the flesh, Maester Luwin," Her eyes glimmered with mirth, "Does not mean it is a useless pursuit. As Winterfell's acting manager of the books I would have expected you to appreciate the profits my reforms have brought to the coffers." Wordlessly she left without another glance at any of them. Clearly wielding an aura of such confident sensuality that Sam Codd stumbled back into the wall as she passed him by.

"I missed Winterfell," Theon sighed as Maester Luwin began to explain how his intestines had been protruding from his abdomen, "No place more exciting in this whole world."

OOOO

"Where is Arya?" Sansa wasted no time confronting Bran as he entered the Stark apartments. The lad decided his sister had been at the Guildhall as usual. Her hands bore the distinctive ash from a day spent working with flames. Why she cared to spirit herself into such a strange place was not disclosed to him. Only to Arya.

Resentment began to boil in Bran's belly at how little any of his family seemed to think of his loyalty since he had left Winterfell to become a squire. Until he noticed just how stricken Sansa's usually compassionate face was. Pale and bloodless, her blue dress covered in marks from where she had been mindlessly tugging at it. "Cynthea Frey came to fetch her as soon as we arrived," He explained nervously, never having seen Sansa so uncomposed in three years at least, "King Robert summoned her to his chambers. They always have luncheons togethe-."

In that moment Sansa's eyes rolled into the back of her head. He rushed forth to catch her before a nasty fall could occur. For a moment his eldest sister jerked wildly as he bellowed her name frantically. Suddenly the Tully blue he was used to replaced those violent whites. "We must hurry to the kennels Bran. I will explain as we go." Skirts tugged to discourteous heights she sprinted out of the Hand's quarters. Worried immensely for her sanity and reputation he dashed after only seconds later. "Father-resigned-as-Hand!" She panted as they struggled out of the Tower of the Hand. "King-Robert-Is- _Furious_. Father-was-attacked-in-the-city-this-hour."

"Why are we running to the kennels then?" He shouted back only to be ignored. Following while beating away a desire to visit his father the lad focused on sprinting despite the heavy mail he wore. Hissing to a halt the pair finally arrived at the kennels. What they came across shocked him to his core. Prince Joffrey was surrounded by a swarm of men while the Hound slashed furiously at four very angry Direwolves. The Stark children only left their easily distinguishable companions in the kennels when trips to the city were in order. Bran surmised that the Prince had ordered some sort of attack on the formerly penned animals until they broke loose. Perhaps one could have been manageable. Four of them, however, all nearing the sizes of horses were no simple matter to eliminate.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sansa snarled, slipping beside Dream as Bran accompanied Ruin. Phantom flanked Nymeria closely, both snarling at their visibly unsettled opponents. Five men, a Clegane, and a snivelling Prince did not stand much of a chance in this confrontation after all.

"Your father is no longer the Hand," Joffrey hissed venomously, face red as a tomato. "That means his word no longer matters. As your betrothed I have the right to not wish my future Queen to be shadowed by such filthy beasts! My mother gained the approval of my father in this matter!" A sadistic smile crossed his face, "Winter is Coming. They will make fine pelts. Even though you shall soon not be leaving my chambers often, Stark whore."

Bran jutted forth to begin fighting for his sister's honour until she reached over to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Threaten me that way again, Joffrey Baratheon," Her voice was cold as ice, "And you shall truly know the bite of winter. Even a spiked phallus ripping into your repugnant arsehole will not compare to the sheer wrath of House Stark." She slipped forwards whilst the hands dangling at her sides began to tighten sinisterly. Each of the four Direwolves curled onto their haunches as the torches around the large group began to gutter enigmatically. A freezing chill descended over Bran's bones. Then the howls started to bounce across the stone. Not mournful, but hungersome. This was the primal noise of a pack preparing to feast. " _Harm us not. Or the men around you shall suffer the score. Your precious Hound will blow through the wind as a pile of ashes 'till the sun sets no more._ "

Several long moments passed. Until Joffrey Baratheon, the Crowned Prince of Westeros fled with loud wails. Pursued closely by each of his soldiers. Until finally the Hound followed whilst staring speculatively at Sansa. "Better get those monsters out of the city. Before the Prince grows a cock and balls, Starks." He warned over his shoulder.

When they were finally left alone Sansa collapsed against Bran's nearby body. "Find Arya," She breathed heavily, eyes rung by purple bruises that had not been there when they first entered the kennels. "The King is highly unstable and drunk. It is not safe for her to be anywhere near him."

"I cannot leave you here, sister," He argued strongly.

" _I_ can take care of myself Brandon Stark," She corrected him firmly. After what he had just witnessed the boy could not quite argue with such sentiment. Sansa was clearly not quite so demure or saintly as she liked to present herself. "Take Nymeria and Ruin. These two will be enough to guard me." Stumbling away the Lady collapsed against the bars of what had once been the Direwolves' pen. Phantom and Dream nuzzling affectionately at her. "Make sure that father is secured by Stark men. I heard a rumour that Queen Cersei tried to have him arrested. Jory Cassel is dead." Her tired face peered at him through the darkness, "Hurry Bran…."

OOOO

Arya screamed though no one seemed to care. Her tunic hung torn, sword outside of the King's chambers with an eagerly complicit Meryn Trant. A slobbering, massive King hunkering towards her with a drunken face. Breath which reeked of vomit and sour wine grew ever more distinct despite the knife. "Ned tried to take you from me, Lyanna," He growled, "But I won't let that happen ever again." Once more the fat arse lunged forwards though this time she did not hesitate in cutting at his hand. Unfortunately for her he was so drunk that the pain was likely a mere prick. She was backhanded downwards and pressed to the floor beneath many stones of fat.

Hissing the girl screamed violently whilst punching him repeatedly in the face. This could not happen, she decided firmly. This _would_ not happen. She was destined to be the Lady of the Vale one day. Not to become a plaything to the corrupt, obese King of Westeros. Who would call her by her aunt's name as he snapped her like a twig. Surely, a firm grip tightened against the blade again. Fabric ripped further. Arya Stark readied herself to kill a King.

The doors burst open. One of them knocking halfway off the hinges. "UNHAND MY SISTER!" Nymeria bounded forth in a flash of grey. King Robert squealed as the Direwolf ripped viciously into his right arm. Gasping loudly Arya stumbled upwards into the arms of Bran. Beside him stood Cynthea Frey with a horrified expression on her face. Despite her state of distress the clever Stark girl whistled keenly so Nymeria slipped back from her prey. It would not do for the King to be murdered with her maidenhead no longer under threat.

"I AM THE KING!" Robert bellowed, spittle flying out in strings onto his foul beard. Arya's stomach twisted violently at the sheer realization that such a foul creature had almost ruined her. At least fifteen Stark and Harrenhal men surrounded him. "I have rights to any wench I see fit!" Blood streamed about the floor from where he had been savaged by Nymeria.

They stumbled from the cavernous chambers into the hall where forty more soldiers awaited. Boros Blount lay dead on the ground with Lamentation dropped nearby. "Meryn Trant fled at the sight of us, Lord Bran," One of Sansa's Knights professed mournfully, "I sent two men to catch him, but he gained a vast head s-."

"We can only hope to contain the situation," Arya finally snapped out of her state. "That fat piece of shit told me Cersei tried to have father arrested today. Where is he?"

"Severely wounded in the charge of Maester Py-." Bran cut himself off at the sudden realization. "Hurry now. Send twenty men to secure our father!"

"Take Pycelle hostage. Seek out Maester Paege to treat our father's injuries." Arya followed up closely. The twenty men wasted no time running off for the former Hand. At this point her brother wrapped his large cloak about her uncomfortably exposed frame. "Cynthea," She spoke in a softer tone, "I need you to find all of my Ladies-in-Waiting as well as Sansa's. You all need to flee north with the Direwolves for Harrenhal. The capital is no longer safe."

"I will not leave you," The Frey girl spoke bravely. Blue eyes shining brilliantly with loyalty.

"Of course not," Arya amended, "But the others must. Such hostages cannot fall into Lannister cells. Then after they have begun packing order my Blue Roses to deploy alongside Sansa's men and the Stark guards." She dashed away without much further pause. "Where is Sansa?" Arya demanded frantically of her brother.

"You sit." He guided the traumatized girl to lean against the wall. "Stay here. So long as we have the King we control the city." With that she was allowed to finally sit against the wall beneath the comforting depths of the voluminous, silk cloak. Arya refused to cry in that moment. She was a Stark of Winterfell in King's Landing with a highly inept father and enemies abound. Such weakness could not be given free reign until a pillow could hide her sobs. "I must retrieve Sansa so that we are all together again," He nodded, "I will be back soon."

Leaving her alone again.

OOOO

Val could not remember the last time she slept in something other than a makeshift tent. Huts were rare these days Beyond-the-Wall with all of the ransacking which had taken place. Sighing she tried to enjoy the small comfort of a large hearth and shelter from the descending cold. At the hip rested her nephew while a smattering of important Free Folk leaders sprawled about nearby. Thoughts occupied Val's minds most nights. _Ten-thousand_ men and women with countless children unaccounted for. That was the number the Master of Glaciers had given her. So far it seemed to be coming true. From every pocket of resistance at least half of the Free Folk followed. The rest staying behind rather than to ever stoop so low as to kneel for a southron Lord.

Behind them the Dustins had followed. Thousands of men hunting down Wildlings to no avail. Any fighters that Val had not recruited were secretly gathering north of the Haunted Forest for one last stand. Such a fight would be pathetic. All fifty giants they had encountered were with her, their mammoth herd in tow. Most of the warriors in her party were fresh and unbled while their idealistic, harried parents would likely fall apart at first charge. Slipping up she released a small sigh of relief as her nephew remained fast asleep. Thinking of the ten-thousand who were destined to die left her feeling ill at ease. Only once beneath the swirling snow could Val find calmness again.

She should not have been standing there. Fists tightened at this frequently recurring thought. Mance would never feel so unsure of himself. Dalla, like a true mother, would do what needed doing with her babe swaddled to her hip the whole while. "I cannot do this." Too much doubt muddied her thinking for comfort.

"Nay, you shall," Came the feeble voice of Mother Mole. A quarter of their ranks had come over when Val defeated Harma the Dogshead in single combat. Twice that when they visited Mother Mole's gathering of Free Folk. The cult had been preparing to travel back to Hardhome based off of the Woods Witch's prophetic visions. Until the Master of Glaciers spent a day speaking to her privately beneath a sacred grove of the Haunted Forest. Now, with a bowl in her hands and eyes shining bright it seemed that the woman followed a new vision. "You shall lead us to safety. As another Mother once did from many leagues east of this spot."

"That is what everyone says," The young woman responded haughtily, "Though repeating such encouraging words does not make them any truer. How are we to cross the Wall? Without the Crows slaughtering us. With so many orphaned children, fifty Giants, and one-hundred mammoths?" Despite reports of many Free Folk being allowed entry to kneel this was an entirely different circumstance. Never in all of history had an army been brought to the Wall with good intentions. No, they would likely order a mass execution than show any leniency.

"If we stay death will come to us," Mother Mole declared sternly, "Already thousands of our people are thriving in the Gift." She held out a bowl of paste. Gnarled fingers reached up to run down from Val's face, to her sternum, and to rest against her belly. "I have seen you seduce our saviour. With fertility that glows as brightly as the sun. Two babes shall be born. Two orphans you shall wean. The Master of Glaciers sees no further than his own ambitions. My dreams are full of salvation for these children beneath our guard. Only a mother can guide another mother through the challenges to come."

"I am no mother," Val corrected firmly. Taking the bowl into her own hand.

"Not yet," Mother Mole corrected with a sweet smile, "Though I shall help you with such." She left without another word to whichever hollow tree she had been sleeping in. Shrugging at the odd woman, Val slipped about what had once been a settlement. Now except for a few huts there were mounds of long cold ashes. On the perimeter rested the colony of Giants. The massive creatures had been decidedly tasked with guarding their riches. Everywhere they travelled had yielded buried treasures, or abandoned property of some sort. The Master of Glaciers wasted no time claiming it himself. 'Dowries will be needed south of the Wall.' He prophesied with cold cheeriness. As though the army, wargs, and Giants were not already reason enough to steal her, Val thought mirthfully.

With a wooden spoon of the tangy paste lifting to her lips, Val had little idea just how much of her life had already been written in the stars.

OOOO

Another long one. Hopefully I did not have a ton of grammatical errors.

Next Chapter: How the Birds Trill So Beautifully.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen: No Longer Children.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

Yeah. So, I had a little blurb here when I first posted this chapter. Obviously I have deleted it. I am not going to bother explaining my plot decisions. As was stated in the first chapters you all can go along with this fic or leave. My intent in the beginning was to write it for myself. It's great that so many people have liked this story, but I am not going to worry over it anymore. This is something I do for myself, and I won't be bashed in the reviews. Have fun, hopefully you enjoy my double update, and if you don't I really have no fucks to give.

OOOO

Catelyn found herself enjoying that lovely sound. The birds of the Riverlands were always so happy and carefree. Unlike in the North where _everything_ seemed to carry an air of secrecy. Of heavy, obsolete ominousness. She tugged her shawl more tightly about herself. Eyeing the seven men her brother had offered up as protection on the way back to Winterfell. Their parting had been surprisingly warm despite the massive row they shared her final night at Riverrun. The new father returning after having heard word of his bannermen having been suddenly arrested. Such was unsurprising. She _had_ , after all, managed to clear up many issues for him during her tenure as Lady Paramount. Not to mention that Riverrun's coffers would soon be very full indeed.

"How is the babe?" Catelyn asked the nursemaid after slowing down a pace.

"Strong and healthy as always." The edentulous woman crowed merrily. "I think this little lass will be a good rider herself one day. If all this travelling on her part throughout Westeros is any indication." Those eyes crinkled forwards curiously as the guards began to tighten formation. Another party was approaching from ahead.

They did not slow to exchange pleasantries though. Fifteen men garbed in Lannister colours rode on by. Sitting in the middle of their company was none other than Tyrion Lannister. His mismatched eyes peering darkly in her direction as he passed. The last Cat remembered hearing of the dwarf he had been travelling throughout the North. Searching for his deserter brother. As they passed out of view she began to feel uneasy. "Hand me the babe," She commanded, taking the bundle into her arms. "You," Her voice was directed at a nearby soldier who had been boasted as her brother's fastest rider. "Take Lady Hayford to Seagard. It is the nearest castle to us. Tell Lord Mallister that if we do not arrive behind you he is to send out word to Riverrun, Winterfell, King's Landing, and the Eyrie that I have been ambushed by the Imp. Now _leave_!" He hurried away not a moment later with the baby Ermesande clutched tight to his jerkin.

They changed course to ride after him, albeit at a much slower pace. "My Lady," A man called, "If we all travel around the Sunset Canal instead of that ferry it will prolong our journey. Mayhaps even by days."

"I do not care," Catelyn answered back with a sniff, "We will be passing through Seagard, Ser." She felt unwell. Her stomach rife with unexplainable nervousness. The only relief coming from the fact that Ermesande was safe from any possible harm. They travelled for at least another hour. Only stopping so that the men could urinate behind a thicket of trees several paces away. The feelings intensified in that moment as she shifted nervously on her horse.

"You should calm yourself, milady," The nursemaid suddenly said, reaching a hand out to pat on Cat's shoulder. "We are safer than most women travelling these parts. With seven Knights and guards to mind after us, no less." Those were the last words the peasant woman spoke. Seconds later a crossbow bolt was ripping through her skull. Steel was drawn as Lannister men poured from the trees to savage her pissing Tully guards. Cat wasted no time at all trying to ride forwards and away. Only to be dragged off and thrown so hard into the mud below that any breath escaped her lungs.

"Lady Stark," That ugly dwarf rode into view, glaring the whole while, "I believe you know what your husband did with my brother. You can tell me on the way to Casterly Rock."

OOOO

There was perhaps nothing more terrifying than sitting on the other side of a desk from one's father. Especially as he glared cooly forth with plated fingers. Bran seemed to be sufficiently cowed by their father, Arya noticed. Like any good, chivalric son of the North should be. Sansa instead appeared remarkably unimpressed. Though being the Lady of Harrenhal did tend to undermine any beholdency one had towards their father. "You three took the King hostage, threatened the Crown Prince, captured Maester Pycelle, and took control of a continent's capital for more than a fortnight." He suddenly pounded down mightily upon the table with his fist.

"Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell agreed with us father," Bran protested in response, surprising Arya with his defiance. "They did not believe that the Queen was right to have you arrested. Especially when everyone knows you had no part in the Kingslayer's desertion of the Kingsguard." He scowled suddenly, "The _King_ also dared to attack my sister's modest-."

" _Silence_ ," The newly reinstated Hand of the King still bore the grey face of a recent recovery. "Your sister acted a whore. _That_ alone is why she was attacked." He bore the full intensity of his gaze into Arya's matching pair. "I have seen you manipulating the King since Winterfell. Whispering in his ear. Exploiting your resemblance to your aunt whenever it suited you. Now do not act surprised that our drunkard King took advantage of your lack of a chaperone with his addled state of mind." Hidden from view Sansa squeezed tightly at her sister's hand in a show of solidarity. "You did this to yourself, Arya. I am of half a mind to wed you to any available man so I never need look at the shame you brought on this family again." He paused with a scowl, "I let you run amok. Let you grow just as wild as she was."

None of them were allowed to think more deeply on his strange comment for he turned to Sansa next. "You will _not_ be breaking your betrothal. We are Starks. We keep to our word. I do not care if the Crown Prince-."

"Threatens to kill our Direwolves? Disrespects his future Queen's House? Murders Farring girls and whores on a daily basis, father?" Arya cut him off ferociously, "We would not want the little shit to mistake me for a whore, of course. Given that the resemblance is so strong."

"Sit, child-," Lord Stark tried to sound intimidating but it did not work. The Wolf's Blood Arya had tampered down at Shiera's insistence was boiling white hot for the first time in years.

"I am _not_ a child. Not since your precious friend tried to force his _cock_ up my _cunt_. Neither is Sansa. She is the Lady of Harrenhal. If she wishes to leave then she may." Grey eyes blazed, "I would not blame her. The quick thinking she showed is the only reason you are not festering in a prison cell, or I have been raped to death by a fat beast." A sarcastic snort ripped out of her contorted, sneering face. "Also, just _try_ to marry me away to some old Lord I have not chosen. We both know I will bite his cock off and shove it down his throat."

A door opened as her father rocketed to both of his own feet to tower over his unusually tall daughter. "My Lord," It was a Stark guard with a red face, "This message has come from Seagard for you." He hurried over to force it into her father's hand. Then stood to the side with a bowed head. Arya's anger was forgotten as her pigheaded father suddenly stumbled, knees buckling. He was forced to grip the table until she raced around to help him into his seat.

"Father," Bran asked, "What is wrong?"

Sansa cleverly reached over to grab the message for herself. Eyes going wide. "I will have the Imp's head for this!" She snarled, "Tyrion Lannister thought he could abduct our mother with no repercussion?" Bran gasped as Arya gripped at her sword handle. Nearly ready to go and murder Cersei Lannister in retaliation. "I must send a raven to Harrenhal. Grandfather will need the supplement of men I can prov-."

"No." Her father suddenly cut her off, "I will send all of the troops we brought to the city. They can deploy faster." He nodded to himself, "Yes. Tywin Lannister blames us just as much as Tyrion Lannister for the Kingslayer's disappearance. With your mother as a hostage he will be emboldened to attack any force the Riverlands might muster. Our men will be there faster."

"They are not _all_ your men though, father," Sansa snapped back, "They are mine, and they are all that is keeping us safe here. After what happened with Cersei Lannister the instant you resigned can you really call yourself safe? Arya and I cannot even keep a court for fear of our Ladies' safety here." She softened her face, whether it was a manipulative tactic or genuine, Arya did not quite know. "Please let me send word to Harrenhal. We must be patient, and we must not be rash."

"I am not rash. I am thinking pragmatically, Sansa," Their father responded firmly, causing his eldest daughter's mouth to fall open in shock. "You forget that I am the Hand of the King. Not just your father! If I see fit to take command of your men, men sworn to defend the crown against upstarts like Lannister, then it is my right." He glared, "Unless you are a turncloak in addition to an oathbreaker." There was a long silence.

"I am leaving. Leaving this stinking, shitty capital, father." Sansa finally declared with cold eyes. "Bran and Arya are coming with me. All of us have tried endlessly to keep you safe. Unfortunately, it seems as though ever since you set foot in this city your mind has gone unused. I will not be treated like a foolish, little girl when I know I am cleverer than you by scores." Her Tully-blue eyes could have murdered a weaker man with that disapproving glare alone. "You know it too, deep down, I am almost sure. Yet rather than embrace my input you dare call me a traitor?"

"Arya and Bran will be staying." He stared at Sansa with a sad look, "They are still beholden to Winterfell and my say. You are free to make your own choices, my Lady. Just know that if you defy the crown in any way I will be forced to put my own daughter in the Black Cells." With a snarl Sansa stormed out of the solar in a tornado of silk and red hair. "Do you have something else to tell us?" He turned to stare punitively at the messenger who still stood there with a bowed head.

"Yes, Lord Hand," He nodded, "Sers Vance, Darry, and Piper are here to speak with you. They bring reports that Gregor Clegane began leading attacks on the western border of the Riverlands. Six days ago." Their mother had allegedly been abducted nearly twenty days earlier, Arya noted grimly after reading the date on the letter from Seagard. Tywin Lannister was certainly moving very quickly to begin bleeding the populous, increasingly wealthy Riverlands.

"Show them in," The Hand said sternly. "You two are dismissed." He paused to rest his face in his hands. "Our guards have been ordered to confine you both to your chambers. Do not cause any more trouble for me."

Arya could only imagine how much pressure their still-injured father felt. His wife abducted by the Lannisters, western mutiny against the King's peace, and the sudden news that nearly all of the offices overseen by the Master of Coin had been emptied due to violent assassinations. The girl could not, however, feel much sympathy for him. Not when he had proven himself to be just as prejudiced as every other man in Westeros. So narrow minded as to side with a slovenly King over his own daughter. She tried to ignore the disappointment, remembering that in this world women could only depend on themselves.

The lesson cut deeper than she ever could have anticipated.

OOOO

Myrcella's fingers shook as she walked through the Red Keep. In the four days past her position as the family black stag had become even more solid. Her brother referring to her as 'traitor' for visiting so frequently with the Starks after all that happened. Mother saying that the mere sight of her only daughter was 'disgusting' still rang through the Princess' head. Now as her feet carried her to fulfill the King's summons in the training yards Myrcella felt terror. Her own father terrified her after the tale Bran had shared. It opened a floodgate of mental criticisms the smart girl had avoided contemplating her whole life. That this slovenly, uncaring man had allowed others to rule through him by proxy. None of them particularly charitable to the needs of the smallfolk. How he enabled Joffrey's horrible, disturbing traits by ignoring the boy. Thereby cursing Westeros to suffer beneath at least two poor rulers.

Now the man's lechery corruptness had grown so engorged that he no longer saw issue with attacking the daughters of High Lords. If something like what happened to Arya Stark occurred again it would not be long until all of Westeros stormed King's Landing. Forcing herself to remain strong the Princess observed her father from afar. Before him was a table. Standing nearby with stern posture was Mandon Moore. Behind stood Meryn Trant and Ser Selmy. With a proud tilt of her head Myrcella stopped in front of the table, and curtsied elegantly before her father. "Your grace," She spoke firmly, "You summoned me?"

"Pick two," The King answered with critical eyes. Strangely enough he did not seem to have been that deep in his cups. She glanced down at what actually occupied the table's surface for the first time. Weapons of all shapes. The only common feature between the different objects was that they had been crafted with a woman in mind. All were smaller than a man's regular armaments were. "Bran Stark likes to tell me how clever, and special you are. That Stark girl can fight as well as any man. You should be more than capable of picking two sufficient weapons." He stared at her with a dark expectancy. A look that dragged shivers across her spine like claws.

Myrcella knew that she had no choice in the matter. Even though Ser Barristan clearly disapproved of the situation he would never dare contradict his king. She remembered how Joffrey had once been presented this very choice for a hunt. He had slaughtered a deer with a crossbow earning the title of coward, and his father's disgust. The Princess was too clever to make the same mistake. Earning an approving grunt from the King she hefted the war hammer up with one hand. Though it had been modified to be _just_ wieldable by a woman, that did not make the thing any less heavy. Letting it sink to the dirt on her ride side she observed the other weapons. If the King intended to turn her into Arya Stark then there was no point wasting the opportunity. She was better off learning to actually defend herself than worrying over her diminished marriageability.

To that end she lifted a light falchion blade off of the table. Imagining that whilst her warhammer could be wielded in the right hand to pierce armor, or rip away shields, the blade could hold back any retaliatory attacks from her left. Myrcella watched as her father stood to both feet. "Your grac-." Selmy tried to speak in warning until being silenced.

"Fuck off, Selmy," Robert Baratheon ground out. "I have let myself fall far enough out of shape. Besides, who better to teach the girl than her own father?" Myrcella understood immediately that this was meant to serve a dual purpose. To embarrass her mother and brother for Joffrey's weakness in combat, as well as to get the King back in shape. Likely the man had grown obsessed with Lyanna Stark's alleged twin in all but name. Perhaps being rejected so resoundingly by Lady Arya had made him decide to pursue this folly.

Mandon Moore interrupted these thoughts by handing her beastly father his own war hammer. The King's face turned red at gripping the massive thing, though he made no comment. The man wasted no time striding towards her. Even though she was a Princess who had never dreamt of wielding a weapon in her entire life. The boot connected sharply with her chest almost immediately after he knocked the weapons from her grip. Writhing in the dirt, pretty dress already ruined, Myrcella gasped for air. Wondering why the Gods were so unjust to give her such an idiotic, cruel father. "Hold tighter. If you do not have blisters tonight your grip was to weak," The King bellowed what would be the first of plenty bits of wisdom. For the first time in her life, Myrcella secretly learned to enjoy the thrill of making oneself get back up from a training yard.

No matter how she hated the man teaching her, the pain caused her blood to sing like never before.

OOOO

"You have been spending almost every evening here, this past moon," Wisdom Rourke noted. "Will the important people of the Red Keep not notice?" Sansa Stark merely shrugged as she continued to shift the sand about with a stick. Her long hair was unbound, like a pool of silk. Her delicate features smudged by soot in some places. She finally managed to even the sand room out to sufficient proportions. He had noticed early on how efficient the future Queen was. She learned quicker than most and was extremely effective at everything she did. He had possessed no qualms in training the beauty in the art of Wildfire production. Only the week earlier the fast learner had completed the last step of the ancient ritual. Throwing something precious, her bracelet of Valyrian deities, into the dangerous vat. A necessary sacrifice intended to remind apprentices of what they were risking. Standing to both feet the Noblewoman shut the trap door tightly back in place.

"You pay close attention to me, Wisdom Rourke," Sansa noted, stepping closer to him, eyes flashing. "Many men do that, of course. Yet I find you more intriguing than most other men."

"Why is that?" The Wisdom asked. His words thick and heavy on his swollen tongue. She _knew_ what she was doing to him. By practically pressing her bosom to his arm. Those pretty eyes complimented by her soft hair.

"You have seen what I am capable of. Most men would be terrified by me for it. Though you still teach me more of what you know. Show no hesitancy at all in making me more dangerous than I already am." Turning she began the descent back to his study. Rourke supposed that was a good thing, or he might have ravished her against the walls. Rubbing a weary hand over his face the man tried not to wish that Lady Stark would simply learn what she needed and leave. No woman had ever made him question his oaths to the Alchemist's Guild so mightily. They finally arrived to his dark, cold solar. "Your acolyte is useless," She remarked in an even tone that left his cock throbbing even harder, "Can he not even set a simple fire?"

"I want to try something," The man said suddenly. Causing her to stare at him thoughtfully. "I have been perusing the archives. We Alchemists once had a great range of spells, my Lady." He pointed to a dusty scroll of parchment held open on his desk by two candlesticks. "This one is meant to produce more fire than we have ever attempted, Lady Stark. I wish for you to try it." She slipped closer to him than was appropriate. Her eyes closed for several moments as watery High Valyrian poured from her poetic voice. Behind her turnt back the fireplace suddenly roared in response. Blue-white flames billowing mightily upwards.

The Hand's eldest daughter turned to see her magic work its greatest miracle yet. "Flames in need of no timber," Rourke spoke in awed tone. "I always imagined they were deluded ramblings." He stepped closer to investigate. "You are amazing, Lady Stark." He turned only to nearly stumble back into the searingly hot fire. For standing there, basking in the glowing light, was Sansa Stark. Nude as the day she had been born. Her supple, willowy body rested against his desk. Like the marble statues wealthy Lords in the city were always showing off to other men at their luxurious manses. "Amazing," He coughed out, "Like fire…" His voice trailed as he admired her red hair. Surprisingly enough, however, she was bare of any in the nethers.

Eyes nearly crossing he stood stock still. "I do not need to just learn the arts of Pyromancy." She whispered huskily. "I have put off learning the intricacies of seducing a man long enough."

"You already seem quite adept at such matters," Rourke coughed, trying to fight his desire to take her there on the spot.

"No," Sansa Stark smiled confidently, "I have practiced with a few partners. Among them my old handmaiden. A courtesan from the pillow houses of Lys." She stood to both feet, slipping towards him across the rug. "She was a silver-haired, violet-eyed beauty. We would lay together until the long hours of the nights as she taught me how to touch men, and myself." A manipulative blush left Rourke's mouth watering ferociously. She reached up to unclasp his cloak, then the jerkin, trousers, and tunic. "Your skin is so tan," Her voice sound sensuous as she ran fingers along his muscular chest, "Yet you possess the rigidity of a Westerossi Lord. A Dornish mother perhaps?"

"Aye," He nodded in response, "My father is a second son of House Ruthermont in the Vale. My mother was the sister of the Lord of Quorgyle in Dorne." Why he was admitting any of this to her was beyond him. His entire life he had been shamed for his Dornish blood. Now one wanton Lady seemed to revel in it, and he was spilling his guts. She pushed him back into an armchair after unlacing his breeches. "I _want_ to touch you, my Lady." He grasped so tightly at the arms of the chair that his tan hands turned white, "But I must not. If you were to grow pregnant the Prince would have my head."

"I am no fool. I would never dare risk my maidenhead before I have been wedded." Her lips tightened, "Though I no longer care for what Joffrey Baratheon would do. My intention is to leave this city within the moon."

"Why," He gasped more sorrowfully than he had intended to sound, "Would you give up the chance to be Queen?" His amendment seemed forced even to his own ears.

"My mother has been abducted by the Lannisters." She tugged at the strings of his bulging breeches. "There will be a war soon, and I intend to commandeer the forces of Harrenhal for my grandfather." Her eyes were mirthful, "I would have you return with me as a paramour. Serving under the guise of my personal Wisdom." Her lips turned sardonically, "That would be one for the history books. Sansa Stark and her half-Valeman, half-Dorishman lover." At that she revealed his cock to the world.

"What are you doing?" He gasped suddenly, still resistant to her vulgar movements.

"The only thing a maiden can," She whispered, before he saw stars. With only those sultry words and what followed, Sansa Stark won him over completely. Inflaming passions which burnt brighter than the allegiance he owed to the Guildhall.

OOOO

Robb Stark had been to the Wall before, but now things were entirely different. There were the Flints and Norrey's who had been invited back into the New Gift by Theon. Gold and silver deposits, even larger than the ones at White Harbor, had been discovered. He toured them gleefully whilst imagining what the newly wealthy clans taxes might yield the North's development. Then there was Mammoth's Den. A recently finished keep modelled highly after the Greyjoy seat of Pyke with bridges high in the air connecting all five of the tall towers. Further to the east were three small outposts for trade that flowed between Skagos, Eastwatch, and the rest of the mainland. Robb doubted that they would ever be incentivized to grow into ports anytime soon given the rising rates of pirate raids.

Then there was the matter of overpopulation in the formerly sparsely populated Gift. According to reports from the Wall there were ten-thousand Wildling soldiers and spearwives. Additionally, there were forty-five-thousand women, children, and greybeards. That was all that seemed to have survived of Mance Rayder's formerly mighty host. Nearly forty-five-thousand had perished in the stead of their leader. What remained seemed to have journeyed south to seek protection beneath House Stark's vassalship. Needless to say, the poorly settled lands were stretched much too thin. Twenty-thousand huddled around Mole's Town which was rapidly becoming a city in its own right.

With the increased manpower more tunnels had been dug out than even below Wintertown. Above surface many new huts puffed out smoke constantly, warming the many immigrants in rotations. Most of the Mammoths he had heard so much about were kept at the settlement as well. Crops fertilized with the copious quantities of rich, nutritious dung already grew for miles around Mole's Town. Robb had felt easier knowing at the very least that the former Free Folk would be able to feed themselves and then some. If such had not been the case he reckoned the already reluctant Northerners south of the Gift might have mutinied. In order to encourage much needed development he decided to install a council of Wildling leaders.

Gerrick Kingsblood, Styr, a Thenn Magnar, Grisella, a skinchanger, and a red-haired young woman named Ygritte. All were highly respected members of what had once been Mance Rayder's war panel. In an attempt to further affirm the new loyalty the Free Folk had for House Stark he pressured all four of them into kneeling during a public ceremony. None of them had much choice. Not when faced with the threat of winter and a much larger Northern army. On the way to Queenscrown Robb did little more than consider how he could go about arranging marriages for the councilors. Full integration was unlikely to be attained during his lifetime, but perhaps it was possible for his grandchildren to see a unified North. Far stronger than it had ever been in the past.

What awaited him was a mixed bag of grimness and hopefulness. With only ten-thousand at Mammoth's Den, Queenscrown was also severely overpopulated like Mole's Town with much less promise of stability. Twenty-five-thousand Free Folk of vastly different tribal affiliations all divided by a lack of leadership. In a desperate attempt to calm things he ordered the five thousand, troublesome Nightrunners be escorted to Mammoth's Den. Instantly lessening the population woes and cooling the quarrels they had engaged in with another group called the Hornfoots. Prior to leaving he ordered that the engineers of Mole's Town be loaned out to Queenscrown in exchange for one of their large herds of aurochs. Additionally, Robb decided it would be wise to initiate a breeding program of the massive herds.

Then it came time for him to move north to the Wall. His Uncle Benjen had looked weary with a new scar which crossed uglily across the right side of his face. They discussed the Watch's surplus of wealth after having traded away so much of the weirwood. There was the matter of hostages meant to keep the Wildlings in check, at least five-thousand of them. While the number of sworn brothers was smaller than ever before Robb did not share his uncle's concern. Men were unlikely to give up the ability to raise a child, or take a wife. It was likely that the vows were too restrictive, and the organization had long ago passed its peak. Besides, the Northern economy would only continue to grow with the rising population. Restrictions of celibacy only served to harm that positive change. He dreamed of a day when they would be able to raise just as many troops as the Reach.

Now here the man sat peering down the edge of a sword towards such a future. "They call you the Free Queen," He declared, staring at the beautiful Wildling woman. An old woman, named Mother Mole, clutched a babe nearby. On the other side of this 'Queen Val' sat a bizarre man called only the Master of Glaciers. Standing behind them were several more leaders. The terrifying Harma Dogshead who glared venomously at Grey Wind, and a man called Tormund Giantsbane. She had brought ten-thousand with her to the Wall, not including mammoths, aurochs, wargs, and Giants.

"Aye," The icy blonde answered, "But not by any choice of mine. I stuck with Mance long enough. His mess was my responsibility to sort." She was incredibly tall with lovely blue eyes. Not comparable at all to Shiera, but still distracting enough. Robb had arrived to the Wall expecting to allow the last, and largest, of the Giants through. Instead he found himself facing this sharp-tongued woman. Fifty new Giants in addition to the three who had already been waiting for entry. Five-thousand fighting men and spearwives. "My sister's husband swore an oath to bring these people south of the Wall. I will not have his broken words tainting my nephew's blood." She jerked her head back to nod at the babe.

"Does Mance Rayder's son have a name?" Robb asked, intrigued. Here was a son of the King-Beyond-the-Wall. The son of a man one-hundred-thousand bitterly divided Free Folk had rallied behind. The Stark heir was of a mind to one day name this child Lord Protector of the Gift. A mighty ally who could perhaps be wedded to Robb's first child with Shiera.

"No," Queen Val responded stiffly, "He has not yet survived through his first year." At the confused expressions of the men across from her she deigned to explain. "We Free Folk do not name our babes until they have survived a year."

"I am willing to allow your party entry into the North," Robb announced in response. Noting how his men whispered behind him about the 'savage woman' and her 'savage customs.' "However. You, your commanders, and your Giants must kneel and swear fealty to House Stark. Your nephew will be a Lord sworn to Winterfell in turn after he has grown old enough to take charge from you. House Rayder shall preside over the Gift, and supercede the councils installed at Mole's Town and Queenscrown in times of strife."

"My Lord," Uncle Benjen addressed him, "Where will Lady Rayder and her people reside? The other three Wildling settlements are crowded as it is."

"In addition to those terms," Robb continued while staring down his Uncle, "You will be granted the coastal lands to the west. North of the mountains. It will be no easy task to build a successful settlement on the Bay of Ice, especially with piracy. However, you will be given enough stone to construct a strong fortress." He paused to glance at her, "If you prove an effective enough administrator we might one day discuss constructing a port wherever you decide to settle. Such a development would likely give your people much greater influence in the North." Now his eyes flashed to all of the Free Folk leaders. "Accordingly, I will not encourage you in becoming a sovereign nation. All of you will be expected to encourage ties with your southerly neighbors."

"To that end, we must discuss the establishment of new laws you all shall be subject to. The stealing of women is not acceptable. Amongst yourselves it may continue if necessary, but I will not abide any Free Folk men taking girls from anywhere other than within the Gift." He tightened his lips, trying to emulate the severe look his father had always been so good at projecting. "Raids and theft will be punished to the fullest extent of King Robert's justice. Marriages will be honored, as will any betrothals."

"We have no choice but to agree to your terms." The Queen declared shortly, striking eyes flashing again.

"What of the wealth?" An eager Dustin man asked. The five-thousand men had arrived Beyond-the-Wall months earlier. Queen Val had allegedly just barely managed to lead her people into the temporary protection of the Wall before they could be set upon. That meant her incredible horde of wealth was still intact. Several hundred wagons filled with ivory, amber, luxurious pelts, gems, stone and bronze weapons, weirwood spears, armament collected from the many battlefields Beyond-the-Wall, as well as rare medicines were all under the guard of Giants. Furthermore, Queen Val had proven clever in ordering her followers to collect any nourishment they encountered in the widely abandoned lands. Grains, salted fish, and much more rested alongside the treasures.

"The Queen shall keep her wealth," Robb replied firmly. Snarls of anger echoed from the crowd of men behind him in response. "We have taken enough spoils from the Free Folk!" He called louder, "Better to let them sell those goods. So that they will have the financial resources to further develop the Gift." Still the voices did not entirely quell. Robb felt rage boiling within his belly. These greedy whoresons were making him look a foolish weakling. Already he could see the undomesticated cunning shining in Queen Val's eyes. The last thing he needed was for the goodsister of Mance Rayder to think she could prey upon divisions between the North's people. Standing to both feet he hurled his chair at a pair of men who had been bitching loudly to one another moments before.

"Gold shall not feed us in the throes of winter!" He bellowed, "Your teeth will crack, and your bellies will rumble as you bite into it." Grey Wind snarled on his haunches beside him though Robb thought little of it. "Winter is Coming! If Val Rayder can unite her people, their mammoths, their aurochs, Skin Changers, and Giants to help us utilize the fertile lands of the Gift then we shall pay that price!" Tully-blue eyes roved fearsomely about the courtyard of Castle Black. "We are all of the North, the white winds, and the freezing blizzards. Remember that always."

Silence greeted him. Some men even looked abashed. Pleased with himself Robb turned back to face the Free Folk representatives. "I must ask you for several concessions in turn," Queen Val said, "Before I swear fealty to House Stark and become a kneeler."

"Who do you think you are to ask Lord Stark for anything?" Snarled an Umber. They, alongside the Skaggossons and a noticeably small contingent of Karstarks, had been in rotation of supplementing the Wall.

Robb held up his hand authoritatively. "What do you need, Queen Val?"

"The Giants do not belong to me. You must speak with Mag the Mighty. He wants a spot in the mountains where they may be able to repopulate and build halls of stone." Robb nodded contemplatively. That seemed reasonable. More Giants could only help the North. Besides, according to information Uncle Benjen had given him the Giants were to thank for how many mammoths were still around. They revered the fertilizing animals with good reason. "You must also promise to send any more Free Folk who ask the Wall for sanctuary to my new home. Cold things. _Undead_ things are stirring These soldiers you send Beyond-the-Wall should be burning any corpses they f-."

"Are we expected to take this ridiculous horse shit serious-." The same Umber cousin began to snort incredulously, only to be cut off in turn by the strange 'Master of Glaciers.'

He looked like winter embodied. Without any hair and deep tattoos encircling his entire body. Long finger nails tapping on the wooden table he smiled cooly at Robb. "Queen Val does not lie. There are many things we do not understand, but cannot help to believe in. The dead are rising again sure as the Beauty of the Red Comet shall spring forth from your seed when the Bleeding Star smites the sky." Robb felt himself pale at that private detail being released. He locked gazes with the Master of Glaciers' milky, all-knowing eyes. Shivering he was relieved when Benjen spoke.

"We have heard consistent reports of strange things," The Lord Commander said earnestly. "I shall send a ranging party out to investigate these strange whispers. You will be sent word when they return." Then the man addressed Queen Val, "My Lady. If your people are compliant and willing to swear themselves to Winterfell I shall be more than pleased to provide them with a safe passage." She nodded stiffly at him prior to glancing at Robb. Though they might have hated the Northmen little enough to become kneelers, it seemed the Sworn Brothers were still targets of much Wildling hatred.

"I shall visit with Mag the Mighty," Robb spoke firmly, "He will become a Lord sworn directly to Winterfell in his own right." The Giants had already done so much for the North. Stoney Horn had been completed, the keep at Sea Dragon Point was half completed, and Arya's future seat on the White Knife would be finished. He owed it to the beings to give them a home and protection as he would any human.

She stood in response. With such regality that Robb had only seen from his sisters. This Val was a woman of winter. Cold, hard, steely, yet only in character. He could surmise that her heart was just as righteous in its judgement. Already the heir to Winterfell was pleased to have such a strong woman arrive as a leader for her people. _His_ people, now in truth. Around the table the Free Folk Queen walked until she stood before him. Without his assistance the warrior women knelt before her new liege.

"I, Robb Stark, acting Lord Paramount of the North, offer you and yours the Gift, nourishment, protection, support. All in the name of King Robert Baratheon, first of his name." He paused, a Stark had not spoken such words since the Manderlys arrived North, not including his stops at Mole's Town or Queenscrown. It would not do at all to bungle it up. "Do you swear your allegiance to the Iron Throne, Winterfell, and the North. To pay taxes and summon our calls?"

"Aye," She answered simply enough. Staring at him with those eyes which were like chips of ice.

"Will you uphold the laws of these lands, answer the call whenever peace is threatened, defend my people from harm, and forswear any previously held loyalties?"

"Aye."

"Do you accept the consequences of violating these oaths? Do you bind your offspring, your nephew, and his own offspring beneath the protection and service of House Stark for perpetuity?"

"Aye."

"Rise, my Lady. From this day forth you shall be known as Val Rayder. Your nephew shall succeed you as Lord of House Rayder upon reaching the age of majority." He smiled at how well it had gone all while recalling that he would have to do the same for Mag the Mighty. Of course, Robb now fully appreciated Sansa having forced him to learn the tongue of First Men. As though she were one of the greenseers of old. Lady Val stood back up to her impressive height. "Lead your people through to my lands." He authorized. "Settle the western coast as I have commanded. Make House Stark proud."

"Yes," She agreed with a dark sort of amusement glinting in her eyes, "Lord Stark."

OOOO


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen: The Steward's Daughter.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

Note: **I have posted two chapters at once. Please read chapter fourteen before you read this one**.

OOOO

 _Milk…_

 _Blood…_

 _Valyrian Steel…_

 _Red Rose Petals…_

 _White Eyes…_

 _Salt…_

 _When Sansa rose from the waters it was not to find a brilliant, blazing sun, but a glacial sky. Her naked flesh did not shiver. Not because she was a Stark, no matter how the girl might have liked to believe so. No, it was simply due to the fact that this was all a dream. Swirling around in the water, jagged stones biting at her feet, she came face to face with a hooded figure. "Who are you?" She asked in a snarl, "Why do I dream of you so often?"_

 _Instead of disappearing, as he usually did, the figure tossed its hood back. Robes suddenly turning to ravens which flew high into the cold air. Leaving only a red-eyed skeleton behind. Sansa was repulsed by the sight, the arms protecting her nudity from sight tightening ever so slightly. "Your brother would have been powerful, but not too powerful," The voice was dry, and struggled to articulate itself. Like wood passing through a gritty sawmill. Those red eyes honed in on Sansa, "I did not choose you for a reason."_

" _Choose me for what?" Exasperated, Sansa released her arms. Slipping closer to the revolting figure._

" _To do what must be done." He stared firmly at her, "I cannot decide whether to train you, or shun you. There will come a time when you cannot be controlled. Like I could have controlled him." It slipped closer to the river bank. "One slip, one different decision and your brother awoke my sister. Now I must make a decision I never anticipated. Though it has already been set far into motion beyond my control."_

" _How so?" Sansa goaded him with her inborn gentility. Anger had not given her any answers, anyways._

 _The skeleton regarded her thoughtfully. "My sister set you beneath the water in her ritual. She blocked it from my eyes, and I saw it too late. The Direwolves were already in your grip before I thought to examine you closer." He stood still for a long while. Sansa followed suit. Unable to even breathe. "I will be in touch, Sansa Stark," He seemed to have come to some sort of realization, "Do not be a hero until then."_

She sat up, drenched in sweat. Slipping out of her bed Sansa tried to not let her brain swirl. Knocks sounded loudly against her door. "My Lady. I heard screaming," The guard asked, "Is all well?"

"Y-Yes." Sansa answered loudly, "All is well." With shaky hands she poured herself wine. There was another thing to worry about. Only thirty guards left. Every single last soldier she had plotted so hard to bring into King's Landing gone to engage Tywin Lannister. Quickly the young woman gulped at her goblet. No threats were presently around making it perfectly safe to consume just a bit of the stuff. She only ever drank the fine Butterwell stores which had resumed pouring from the Riverlands beneath her patronage. It was her goal to see them compete with Arbor Gold and Dornish Red again. If Sansa managed to survive King's Landing for one more day it might even be a goal achievable within her lifetime.

Setting the goblet back to the side Sansa glanced at her chambers. Sparse where once they had been filled with Ladies-in-Waiting and the best belongings coin could buy. Now the daughters of her father's most powerful bannermen were hiding in Harrenhal while what little remained behind of her possessions were neatly packed away for travel. Quickly tugging off the white nightshift Sansa dressed herself. Her wardrobe was now limited to front-laced gowns, though that was hardly a concern. People in the capital would call her an oathbreaker soon enough no matter how prettily she dressed on this last day in their presence. Besides, with all of her jewels now back in Harrenhal only so much could be accomplished in the hopes of impressing others.

Feeling presentable Sansa left the chambers to address two of her guards. "Please transport the trunks as discreetly as manageable in the manner we discussed." She eyed a third, "Visit my brother so he may be readied. I shall see to my Lady sister." With that a fourth guard accompanied her as the others began to go about their duties. She did not fear of betrayal. The name Sansa Stark was already a beloved one in most of the Riverlands. Any traitors would be few in number and sure to face horrible consequences for turning on her. Further compounding her confidence was that only her most loyal men had been retained, and only the truest amongst that already small number were tasked with these delicate matters. Elegant movements carried Sansa all the way up to the top of her father's designated quarters. Finally she stopped.

"Lady Stark," One of the oh-so trustworthy Gold Cloaks had been positioned as Arya's prison warden. Mostly because her father's men were all murdered during Cersei Lannister's unjust attempt at imprisoning him. Personally, if Sansa were a man and held the least bit of sway she would have convinced her father to send the Gold Cloaks against Tywin Lannister instead. Even then she doubted it would have worked though. The honorable Ned Stark would have decried holding the royal family hostage as treason. Even though at this moment Robert Baratheon refused to call banners over her mother's abduction _and_ had tried to rape Arya. "You have no grounds to be here. Lady Arya is to receive n-." He gasped as the man at Sansa's side suddenly withdrew a dagger. In seconds it all was over.

Quickly she pushed the door open so that any blood puddles could be hidden from view. Keen on her thoughts the guard thrusted the dead Gold Cloak into Arya's chambers. "Sansa!" Arya exclaimed, rushing forth to embrace her sibling, "Are we leaving?"

"Yes." Sansa spoke stiffly as she stroked at her little sister's purple, bruised cheek. Clearly the girl had offered up a fight at some point against her jailors. "Before King Robert gets drunk again." Only two nights before the Stag King had visited the Tower of the Hand whilst her father was in the city doing Gods knew what. Demanding access to do as he wished with his lawful wife, 'Lyanna Stark.' After several terrifying moments of inaction from the Kingsguard Sansa finally managed to verbally cow Balon Swann into returning the swine of a King to his own chambers. Surprisingly the man put up a good fight having resumed training barely a moon prior to that incident. Any reservations Sansa might have had about spiriting her siblings away were dashed right then. "Grab anything at all you might still have left." The girl did just that. Most of her belongings had been sent off to Harrenhal as well. Sansa noted that her sister brought only a small bag of trousers to change into and Lament.

"I need to fetch Cynthea," The girl spoke firmly as they left the room.

Sansa nodded reluctantly. It would not do to argue with her sister. The girl fled up the winding stairs for several long moments. Finally when Sansa worried she might lose any remaining breathing ability to her anxiety the two girls arrived side-by-side. Lady Cynthea carried a bag which clinked with the distinctive sound of metal on metal. Strapped to her side were two twin swords. All four of them hurried back down to meet with their brother only to find disarray. "He bolted. Shouted something about bringing Princess Myrcella, my Lady. I am sorry." The guard choked this all out through his bloody nose.

"Does he at least know to meet us at the docks?" Sansa demanded sharply.

"Aye, milady." A guard without a bleeding nose answered. He opened his mouth to say more until the doors to the chamber they all stood in were slammed open.

"What is the meaning of this?" Vayon Poole asked as he entered with ten of her father's twenty remaining men.

"We are leaving King's Landing," Arya withdrew Lament prompting all of their guards to do the same with their weapons. Sansa was pressed behind her sister and an equally well-armed Cynthea Frey. "Whether you like it or not."

Vayon Poole merely chuckled in response. "I should not be surprised you would take matters into your own hands." He stared at them all with mirthful eyes. "Your Lord father has tasked me with escorting you all to a waiting ship. It is the Lord's wish that you all travel to White Harbor from there." Behind him stood Jeyne whom Sansa had tasked the prior evening with waking early to sort laundry. Mostly a ploy to keep the girl from catching wind and tattling to the wrong people. Clearly she had run into Winterfell's steward on the way back. If Sansa had any say Jeyne would have been well away from any danger up at Harrenhal. Unfortunately the young woman's father was totally loyal to the Lord Hand, and expected the same obedience of his daughter.

"Why would our father decide such a thing?" Her heart was growing heavy. "What could possibly make him decide the capital is unsafe so suddenly?" At the loud commotion of steel being drawn much of the rest of the household had arrived. Chief among them Septa Mordane. Sansa did not know what was going on at all which troubled her deeply. Her plan was so quiet they might have been able to escape without being noticed in the slightest. Now every politician in King's Landing with a set of ears likely knew what was going on. Then there was the matter of what had finally convinced her father that they all needed to leave. Certainly it was dangerous at the very least.

"Where is Lord Bran?" Vayon Poole ignored her as all men seemed to enjoy doing. "We all must leave the Red Keep at once." Her guards seemed to think nothing was amiss for they put their swords away. Allowing themselves to be shuffled out alongside everyone else. The chatter was deafening. Out of the woodwork Sansa's remaining guards had caught wind. The large group was pressed suddenly into the halls of the Red Keep.

"Sansa," Arya hissed, "Something is _wrong_." She managed to put the Lady of Harrenhal's concerns into the air with ease. There was a ringing in the air as though they were the only ones aware of what horrors might be coming. "Form ranks," Arya began snarling at the Riverland men around them, "Order yourselves." As the few Northmen present continued to clutter in a discombobulated pattern, Sansa's soldiers suddenly grouped up. That seemed to have been the kick needed to make them notice the danger lingering on the air. Unfortunately, it was barely enough.

Like any surprise the sudden onslaught was marked with a terrifying announcement. From around the corner of the hall came shouts. Sansa could not think as the Stark men bolstered around her better prepared guards. "Under the orders of King Joffrey Baratheon, Sansa Stark is to be arrested for treason. Her siblings shall become wards beneath the safety and protection of the crown." All of these words were bellowed out by Meryn Trant who led a large force of Gold Cloaks. The fighting began immediately. Stark serving women were skewered like pieces of meat. Vayon Poole was murdered as his blood splashed back onto the body of his horrified daughter. A nearby soldier fell allowing Meryn Trant to behead Septa Mordane.

If not for Arya tugging them away Sansa and Jeyne might have been imprisoned thanks to the shock which had descended. At dizzying speeds they raced through the Keep leaving the sounds of battle behind. "We need to stop at Princess Myrcella's chambers to find Bran. You guard the rear, I have the front." Arya called this out at Cynthea with a shockingly calm voice. They fled onward until arriving at the aforementioned destination. It was not as any of them expected though. Myrcella Baratheon stood with a bloody blade and war hammer dangling in her hands. A corpse resting at her feet. Bran nearby, tugging his blade free of a Kingsguard. Boros Blount by the looks of it.

"We all need to leave now." He snapped while standing back straight. Sansa paused to wipe away at the blood on Jeyne's pale face. Whispering sweet words in her ear whilst pulling her old friend into a one-sided hug.

"I know where we can go. You all need to follow me," Cynthea spoke up. None of them had any better ideas so it stood to reason that they would follow the girl. They snuck several floors down until finally the girl stopped before an ancient, shadowy corner. Beyond Sansa's line of sight Cynthea prodded at something causing the stone to creak away. "A passage into the city. I accidentally found it the other day-." She was cut off as they all began to cram through into the narrow tunnel. As they all crawled further into the darkness Cynthea presumably caused it to close behind for a loud thud echoed dully. For what seemed like miles they all crawled. Sansa wondered nervously if they might stumble upon one of Maegor the Cruel's notoriously deadly traps. To that end she would carefully allow flames to spark at her fingertips every so often. Better to be exposed as a sorceress to her siblings than die deep below the Red Keep.

Neither of those things came to pass though. At the head of the group she came to a dead halt in front of what seemed to be solid stone. "Press the lever at the bottom, my Lady," Cynthea called from the back of the procession. Sansa did just that, sighing in relief as the tunnel sprung open to reveal a filthy alleyway. Hoisting herself out she turned to assist the others until finally Cynthea was tugged free. "We are on the Street of Silk," She explained, again closing the trap door behind them. It was late afternoon now, indicating that they had been in those caverns for a long while indeed.

"We are too recognizable." Arya declared in response as they peered at the bustling street from their hiding spot. "We all must meet at the docks. I say we split apart to minimize any of the Gold Cloaks from spotting us." Her grey eyes appraised them all. "Cynthea will take Jeyne. You both are the lowest priority of that cunt Joffrey. It will make up for…" They all knew she was referring to Jeyne's blood splattered body. Given the girl's present state of shock explicitly mentioning it would have been risky and incredibly unwise. "I will escort Sansa and Myrcella," She rummaged in her bag whilst talking, pulling three cuts of fine material into the light. Spare Lyseni silk, from the looks of it. "Bran," The girl nodded at him, "You are too popular amongst the Smallfolk and too difficult to disguise. Stick to the shadows and travel opposite of us through these alleys."

He left immediately, having the longer route. Sansa took the proffered fabric, wrapping it around her head like a shawl, Arya doing the same. Then she allowed herself to be pulled into the dangerous streets of King's Landing.

OOOO

Jeyne Poole had grown much in the previous years. Few people noticed, but that did not prevent her from seeing it in herself. That was only one thing the young woman managed to learn. What others thought worthy of observation did it not necessarily make it so. She no longer judged others through the lens of propriety. Septa Mordane, may she rest in peace, was always a better dancing instructor than politician. Sansa benefited greatly from the further instruction of Shiera Seastar though Jeyne as a lowly steward's daughter found herself instructorless. So she taught herself.

Sansa was Jeyne's only hope for any prosperity. They travelled throughout the North, Vale, and Riverlands. No men of import flocked to her as they did Lord Stark's eldest daughter. Being away from the limelight left Jeyne with only two tasks: Serving Sansa dutifully, as well as to learn. Through observance she did just that. Watching powerful men interact with one another in that infernal dance of political ambition. Tywin Lannister, Hoster Tully, Ned Stark, Jon Arryn, the Small Council, and even Robert Baratheon to some extent. Different motives, different methods, as well as different morals.

These men made choices. Important ones which caused ripple effects to rattle the entire structure of Westerossi society. Powerful men like the ones Jeyne Poole had met were responsible for the deaths of innocents like her father. Not Meryn Trant, or any other member of the Kingsguard. It was those in charge who employed corrupt fucks before unleashing such viciousness on their 'inferiors.' Already Jeyne was imagining ways to hamstring not only her father's killer, but the newest powerful man she had so recently become acquainted with. Joffrey Baratheon. Perhaps her wrath might never be enough to kill, but she would do anything in her might to hobble the young monster's reign. Bleed him just enough so a more powerful player might one day be able to bash the fucker's skull in.

Her brain was too rational though. Such emotions and rambling plots were not feasible. A lowly Lady from Winterfell could never wield enough influence to act on such desires. She allowed the Frey girl to pull her along towards the docks. Accepting her new fate. As the daughter of a steward to the Lord of Winterfell Jeyne could have wedded well enough. Now she was fatherless, a mere Lady to Sansa Stark, who was no longer set to become a Queen, with a mother back in Winterfell to care for. The woman wondered idly if they would even survive their departure from King's Landing. Cynthea tugged hard suddenly as they grow closer to exiting a busy marketplace. Behind them shouts erupted as the Gold Cloaks began to force violently through the throngs of people. Jeyne choked when a stocky woman rammed into her much smaller body. The peasant gasped in horror at the sight of Jeyne's face. Doubtlessly the pretty features were still splattered in her father's blood.

Still, Cynthea Frey pulled her along. Now free of the crowded streets they broke into a run. Skidding through grimey backpassages like street urchins. Jeyne slipped against a wall during one wild twist, yet somehow found the strength to continue running. Covered in filth she released a fast breath when they finally stopped at the docks. "Bran Stark owns two ships," Despite having fled from Gold Cloaks all day the younger girl betrayed no signs of stress. Jeyne remembered Arya Stark's Blue Roses back in the North. Another lesson she had learned the hard way. Some were still giggling maidens, just ones that could wield blades with deadly proficiency. Others had been hardened, stony women, mostly widows. Rarer still had been the daughters of Noblemen like Meera Reed, or the Mormonts. She had never doubted that just like Lady Arya they were equally as deadly as most Knights. Cynthea Frey, from what her brown eyes had observed, was one of the finest Blue Roses ever trained. From the vicious way the girl fought in the training yards to her response under extreme pressures.

As they hid beneath the shadows Jeyne felt safe for the first time since that afternoon. "You are not like most Freys, Lady Cynthea." She stated this rather than queried.

Cynthea glanced at her wryly. "I imagine you have met many Freys since becoming Lady Sansa's Lady-in-waiting?"

"Three proposed to me when we stopped at the Twins three years ago," Jeyne spoke in a sort of fugue. Her tongue moved of its own accord as though to distract from the horror of being coated in her father's blood. "Though the Freys do tend to wed anyone they can. Nor am I the sort of woman to be easily impressed with such offers."

"Before we left for Ironoaks. After my father drowned." Cynthea's eyes scanned violently across the area for any sight of their companions, "My Lord grandfather said something to me. 'Girl, you will spread my seed deep in the Vale. Let whatever husband your grandmother picks mount you. Say nothing. A quiet wife is a good wife. That is your duty.'" Her dirty, brown hair which had grown streaked with gold from the sun of King's Landing shook defiantly. "I was only five, but I remember asking that mangey, old man a question. 'If the words of House Waynwood are _Always Upright_ , should I allow anyone to mount me?'" Despite her fleeting smile, Jeyne noticed how the other girl's fists tightened. Growing white as snow. "The last time I saw the Lord of the Crossing he had ordered my half-Uncle, Black Walder, take me across the knee. Because little girls who do not have fathers to beat them are known to die pregnant whores."

"That is horrible," Jeyne began to protest. Forgetting her own terror and focusing on Cynthea's story.

"That is the truth of this world." The Frey girl responded morosely. "I cherish the wisdom my Lord grandfather imparted upon me. Even if he did not intend to bestow it in the first place." She glanced at Jeyne with those blazing, blue eyes. "Both of our fathers are dead. We have no men who can speak for us, or guard our fates. That is your responsibility now, Jeyne Poole. The sooner you realize it the better off you will be." Her body tensed suddenly, prior to relaxing once more. "Bran and Princess Myrcella have arrived. They are on the other side of the docks." No pointing occured after that declaration. To do so would have drawn too much attention. "Arya told me they purchased these ships in secrecy. The Gold Cloaks will come to the docks before nightfall though. Bran will likely tell his crew to prepare for sail before then."

They stood together for a while longer. The sun beginning to fade to sunset. A prickling sensation set Jeyne's body on edge. Something was wrong. No sooner had she thought that than Arya and Sansa Stark burst into the harbor courtyard wildly. Arya no longer wore her head covering. Black hair flashing behind her like a river of glossy raven's feathers. A sword in one of her hands. Pursuing them were a party of Gold Cloaks. Jeyne could see that some were horribly wounded even despite being perched from so far away. "Hurry, hurry." Cynthea crowed as they rushed into the dying sunlight. From the tangle of docks Bran Stark had revealed himself, waving violently, auburn crown of curls flashing against the purplish sky.

"To him," Cynthea gasped. They scurried that way, arriving to Bran well before the other two girls. Moments later Arya and Sansa arrived. Given the armour it was unlikely the Gold Cloaks would be able to catch up to them as quickly as they might have liked. Still, Jeyne already knew in the pit of her stomach that escape would not be possible. With a battalion of soldiers pursuing them it would take no time at all for the ships to be stormed as they all tried to flee. From the look in Sansa's eyes she could tell the other girl felt the same way. "Run, now." Cynthea ordered again, "We cannot waste any seconds." This spurred all of them to dash forth again. Except for Sansa. Jeyne did not move, her body attuned to following her dearest friend's orders for so long.

"You must help me, Jeyne," Tears were flowing down her face. "I must make a terrible sacrifice. For them. Tell my mother I love her…" She tugged down her covering revealing that beautiful, distinguishable hair which had always set her apart from other Ladies.

"We will do this together, Sansa. As true friends ought." Braveness soared in Jeyne's throat. Of such an intensity she had never imagined herself capable of experiencing. Was this what men felt before riding into battle? What her own, sweet father had felt as he threw himself onto Meryn Trant's sword for her? She hoped to all the Gods that her hunch was true. In that moment courageousness, though so incredibly, undeniably foolhardy, felt insurmountable to death. For the first time in her life Jeyne sent a prayer to the Stranger.

Then she darted in a direction opposite of the docks. Sansa doing the same towards the right. On a cyvasse move it would have been an unbeatable play. Dragons sacrificing themselves so the King pieces could flee. In real life it was far less elegant an ending.

With a crack the Steward's daughter was launched into jarring darkness.

OOOO

"Sansa Stark has been placed in the Black Cells with the Steward's daughter." A guard announced to the disorganized Small Council. Much disorganization had exploded over the table that day.

Lord Varys sweating profusely from having searched so ardently for the Stark children. "Separate of any male prisoners, I hope." His high voice keened gratingly. "The virtue of Sansa Stark is the only thing protecting us from half of Westeros-." A glass was thrown in that instant, smashing mightily into the wall behind him.

"Let them come," Cersei Lannister snarled. "They took my _daughter._ If those Northern savages so much as touch my girl I will have Sansa Stark placed in a Fleabottom Brothel. I will send back the North's golden daughter with a bastard in her belly and the worst diseases deep in her cunt."

"Stop with the hysterics, mother." Joffrey Baratheon ordered. "Or I will have you removed from the chamber." His cruel eyes glinted, "Women do not belong sticking their noses in such matters." The boy had become the new King of Westeros that morning when his father died during a hunt. His cruelty had grown bounds in the hours since he settled upon the Iron Throne. "Has that traitor Stark agreed to confess yet? For the lies he has spoken about me?"

"No, your grace," The jailor responded, "My men have told me he refuses to speak-."

"Deny him water. Only give him salted bread to eat." The King spoke imperiously, cold aura flashing ominously upon the occupants of the room. None visibly shuddered though they likely were all unnerved. "When he is delirious tell him I will fuck his daughter's pretty, red cunt. After I have finished with the bitch she will be given to the Mountain as a prize for his service in the Riverlands. Unless he confesses." With a stiff neck the man left the room to bask in the silence of those horrible utterances. "Lord Baelish. Have you sent ships to recover my sister?"

"Yes," The man was smug no matter how hard he tried to hide it. He had brought down the former Hand with a single, decisive betrayal. There was much to be smug about after all. "They fled on two ships. I have hired a reputable group of sellsails to recover Princess Myrcella."

"Your grace," Varys spoke up, drawing King Joffrey's psychotic gaze his own way. "The city is restless. Many witnessed Sansa Stark's arrest in the harbor. She is well loved by the people. They are not taking well to news of the recent, treason committed by Lord Stark." He paused beneath the chilling atmosphere. "I hear of riots breaking out near the Dragonpit."

"Anyone who takes up arms is to be put to the sword," The Queen sniffed indignantly. "Ring the Dragonpit with their heads so others who might be swayed by this air of treason may be quelled."

"I want the Gold Cloaks to empty the Dragonpit of my betrothed's beggars and vagrants. Have them all put to the sword. Tonight." Joffrey suddenly declared. "It shall hold the heads of all traitors to my reign. I will have Renly's head placed next to Ned Stark's on display. So all may see their shame for eternity." All but Joffrey likely noted how his mother's eyes widened momentarily. Even she had not considered having Lord Stark executed in her rage. To do such a thing would condemn them to a brutal war with not only the North, but the Val and Riverlands as well. Perhaps even Lys would be involved as well.

"Yes, your grace." Janos Slynt was a sadist. His cruel features gleamed at the opportunity to attack the weak and innocent. He stood, the rest standing with him. None of them wanted to stay near their new King. The rumours were more truth than falsehood. No one in King's Landing was safe.

"Lord Baelish." Cersei Lannister spoke up briefly before they could flee. "Take care of the Steward's daughter."

He grinned sharply, "I can find a place for her."

OOOO


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen: Ashes on the Wind.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

Sansa lost track of how long she spent in those dark, dank cells. Guards threatening to rape her, prisoners threatening to rape her, and visiting capital officials threatening the same. Basically everyone was threatening to steal her maidenhead as she wallowed in puddles of filth amongst rats with no light at all. In the beginning that dynamic held true. Then they took Jeyne away to whatever horrors the elite of King's Landing had in store for her. At being so alone with no idea of whether her siblings ever even escaped she lost any fucks to give. Sorcery was a tool for women who had no reputation, or other options. First she began warging the rats. No easy feat.

Her skinchanging talents had only ever been used on the Direwolves. Now she began to realize that those companions had been perfectly tailored to suit her needs. At first she spent long hours forcing her mind on the tiny creatures only to overwhelm them to death. That was fine in Sansa's books. Less rodents to bite her, and she had nothing else to do anyways but perfect an underutilized talent. Then came the frustration. Slowly Sansa, who never could handle failure well, began to change her tactics. Instead of ramming her mental force into the rats she instead coaxed gently. Placing _part_ of her consciousness into the task. That discovery had been a game changer. Truly.

First she started to monitor guard movements. When they were away Sansa would conjure flame in the edge of her cell. The blackness so deep that none but her could see its flickering luminance. Oddly enough she felt replenished after her moments in the light. From there things grew even more fortuitous. Most prisoners did not have the benefit of knowing what their captors knew. Sansa did. Through the rats she spied on her enemies. Most importantly, nearly a month had passed. She learned that a full on war was raging in the Riverlands, her brother was about to march south from Winterfell after calling his banners, and her Uncle Brynden was fighting a civil war in the Vale with divided, Baratheon loyalists. To the east Stannis Baratheon had risen up in defiance of the crown. To the west his brother Renly was now, according to the Tyrells, a King with Margaery Tyrell as his Queen.

Three separate armies, but all planned on gutting Joffrey like a pig.

Then, most important to Sansa, had been the news that her siblings escaped in two possible ships. One for the North, another for Dorne as a distraction. Pirates hired by Littlefinger lost the one head North in a foul storm while the other party headed for Dorne lost all communication with the Iron Throne. This had all been discussed as Cersei lamented the loss of two valuable hostages in a ferocious temper tantrum. Upon returning to her body Sansa Stark had collapsed into unconsciousness with tears of joy staining her cheeks. For three more days she continued this practice of spying until the Spider visited her. "Lady Sansa," He said in his soft voice.

She wondered in a vain moment how awful her countenance must have been after a month in the Black Cells. "Lord Varys." Her greeting was simple. Here was a man who had served the Targaryens and survived a dangerous transition of dynasties. Sansa was not fool enough to willingly engage him in a sparrage of words. Not when he had decades more experience in politics, manipulation, and administration. Especially not after a month of isolation in the dungeons. Simply put, the Spider was the better woman. He entered the cell, frowning at the mess of moldy hay and shit. "Do not fret, Lord Varys," It turned out Sansa could not refrain from at least one barb, "I only defecated over there. You are not stepping in my shit."

He stared at her a long while. "You are a clever young woman. Much like your grandfather." He ignored the dried feces that crunched beneath his shoes. "I met Lord Rickard briefly before he was cooked in his own armour. Learn from his lesson, Lady Sansa. If a Stark is not obedient in this city they suffer terrible deaths." Her father should have killed every small council member in King's Landing when he had had the chance, Sansa thought wryly.

"The Stark name will live on without me. I have siblings who have escaped. A brother who marches south to assemble an army that can surpass that of the Tyrells almost twice." She cocked her ratted head of hair at him, "Why bother with trivialities when I would much rather cut Joffrey's throat as his whore mother watches? Do you realize I _want_ Joffrey to lose me as collateral? For my brother to dismantle this corrupt fucking city like Cregan should have centuries ago, so Westeros may prosper again."

"How surprisingly selfless." Varys peered at her as though seeing the girl in a new light. That was funny, given that the Black Cells contained no such thing. "I imagined you simply took more after your Lady mother, or Shiera Seastar than you did your father." He clutched both hands in front of him, "It would be a waste for a girl with such admirable views to die before she fully reaches womanhood. Though I cannot advocate for the daughter of a traitor who merely spews more treason in court at any available moment."

"Good. I would rather rot in here than serve Joffrey a platter of niceties." She bit back sharply.

"Oh, no, Lady Sansa. You will be returning up to the Red Keep. They will clad you in silk and finery. Parade you about for the people to see. Though if you ever make your views clear they will cut out your tongue." He smiled grimly at her, "Trust me. It is an unpleasant life being removed from important, pointy things." He stepped further towards Sansa, "Your value shall diminish as soon as the masses have calmed. If you are still bothersome even then they will gladly dispose of you." Sansa should have known that the people would go into an uproar at her imprisonment. She was simply shocked to learn that the riots she had seen briefly as a rat were for her and not because their new King was a bastard born of incest. "There is no choice but to serve his majesty to the best of your ability. If you deviate from my words of advice simply know that no one can protect you."

Courtesy was a woman's armour, Sansa remembered bleakly, and she realized then that her time in the pseudo-Baratheon court was nowhere near over. Joffrey would pretend for a time that she was still his betrothed while swaddling her in crimson-and-gold like the tasteless bastard he was. Then when the Smallfolk forgot the name Sansa Stark they would likely marry her off quietly to some old, Lannister uncle. "Do not pretend that you care for my safety, eunuch," So much bitterness pumped through her body as he began to step backwards with loud crunches of hardened shit echoing the whole while. "You may have no cock, but you have no cunt either. Keep to your corrupt, incessant plotting and remember _real_ women know the true horrors of mankind far better."

"You will be playing those incessant games again soon, Lady Sansa. Steel yourself for it, or give in to the self-loathing." He retorted in that perpetually tranquil manner. The man had his back fully turned when suddenly his entire form stiffened. "Quite strange you should know of your sibling's having successfully evaded capture. That information has been strictly kept amongst members of the Small Council." Their eyes connected for a long moment as secrets kept them drawn towards one another like moths to flame. Finally, Lord Varys broke the connection. "Prepare yourself in the coming days. Enjoy isolation while it lasts."

Then he left her alone in the blackness.

OOOO

Robb did not have any time to sink into misery. His mother, father, and siblings all captives in the south. Little Rickon at Winterfell would be the last Stark if he died. A heavy, unforgivable burden to put on such a young boy. "My Lord," Wylis Manderly proclaimed, belly bulging, "Theon Greyjoy cannot be trusted alone in the North. He must be brought alo-."

"Theon has proven himself to me many times over. He is just as much a Northman as anyone in this tent. Winterfell is in safe hands." Robb ground out impatiently. The heir to Winterfell tired of arguing with his Bannermen over the same things in an endless rotation. Most had arrived at Winterfell though as they marched south newer Lords tended to reiterate the same concerns. At least the swelling number of men in their company always provided some comfort. Twenty-thousand Northmen, five-thousand Wildlings, thirty Skinchangers, and three Giants accompanied him. The Order of the North, and rotations throughout the Wall had done a good job of raising cavalry. Twelve-thousand foot, the rest mostly Northern cavalry, and several hundred Knights. All of his men had been bled as well which meant they were not marching to war with inexperienced greenboys.

"My Lord," Came the chilling voice of Roose Bolton. He had not been pleased with being summoned to a war in the south. There was to be no pretense, however, in Robb's mind. The Lord of the Dreadfort was naught more than a hostage meant to ensure stability remained whilst House Stark skirmished with the Lannisters. To reinforce that idea Rickard Karstark had also been summoned alongside all of his sons. "Can the Wildlings be trusted? They have been left alone beneath the charge of a Greyjoy. The same Greyjoys who have reaved our coasts without impudence for centuries." The cold-blooded arse was good at that sort of thing. Riling up Robb's men so that these meetings were never as productive as they could have been.

" _Enough Bolton_ ," Lord Umber roared. He had been incredibly stalwart ever since Grey Wind gnawed off three of his fingers at Winterfell. "The men in this tent, myself included, all hated the Skaggs only three years ago. Now my children are wedded into those lines with plenty of babes on the way. Lord Rickon has been betrothed to my granddaughter who is just as much a Skagg as an Umber." He pointed the nubs at Bolton with that ever-burning rage. "I have seen the Wildlings keep to their new lands since Lord Robb accepted them south. They are First Men just like us, and sent more than their fair share of men to answer the call. If those Wildlings bleed for us too they are as good as Northmen in my books."

"Aye," Ygritte, the red-haired warrioress, stood from her spot beside Tormund Giantsbane and Maege Mormont. "I will kill for these lands. For the Starks that gave me and mine shelter when the winds and Wall kept cutting us down. If a Stark could break eons of traditional slaughtering of Free Folks, then the rest of you all should be honourable enough to fight alongside them. Even if it means my people partake in hunting Lions." Tormund pounded his mug of ale down in agreement while the Warg representative did the same. "Now," She stared at him, "How many men does the army of the North face? What lands are we nearing? Us Free Folk do not know the rest of Westeros as well as you, Lord."

They often did that, almost forgetting to tack on the terms of courtesy after speaking. Robb did not care overtly much so long as they remained a deterrent towards Bolton's rebelliousness. "We will travel through Moat Cailin first. I plan to take two-thousand of their ten-thousand mounted force. That will round out our army to twelve-thousand foot, and fifteen-thousand cavalry."

"Why not take the rest of the Order with us as well as draw upon the Reeds," Asked the youngest Karstark, Torrhen, always challenging Stark authority wherever possible. He was a fool too. Most of the Lords rumbled with laughter, Lord Rickard blanched white with embarrassment.

Robb looked him straight in the eyes. "The North remained independent of the other Kingdoms for so many millenia only because the Neck was there to strangle any resistance. We will not risk losing such an important region as the one held by House Reed. They will keep all three-thousand of their men, though Lord Howland has already offered us half that number." He peered at all of the rest. "Our Order of the North was constructed to defend the North wherever necessary. Given that the Dustins, Ryswells, and Flints of Flint's Finger are dealing with any remaining, dangerous Wildlings Beyond-the-Wall, I would like to redirect the Order's focus. Their eight-thousand man are to ensure that the Neck remains stable. Marlon Manderly will also be tasked with responding to any pirate raids around the southerly stretches of our lands."

Marlon Manderly had ridden north to greet the Heir of Winterfell himself. His enthusiasm left Robb with the realization that the life of such a strong leader in the Order could not be risked during times of war. Sansa, Arya, and his mother combined had only _just_ managed to put a pin in the defiance of Houses Ryswell and Dustin. To leave those Houses in charge of the Order would eradicate all of his hard work in that region. "I will serve the North to the best of my ability in your absence, Lord Stark," Marlon answered easily.

"I expected nothing less, Ser Marlon," He responded shortly. "Lady Ygritte," His finger pointed to their location on the spread map, "To answer your question, we are here. These regions are the Riverlands and the Vale. Overseen by different Lords, though ones whom I have close familial ties to. We will ride to the Riverlands to defend my mother's homelands from invasion first. Then our army will be reinforced by Rivermen and Valemen." He pointed to the various maps. "In that time I intend to support Stannis Baratheon as the rightful King to the throne."

What he did not say was that Bran would be betrothed to Shireen Baratheon in exchange. Given Stannis' notorious fertility woes the Starks would make up for lost ground by replacing Sansa's past prospects as consort with Bran. A Stark holding power in King's Landing would surely prevent anything like what had happened twice to their family from occurring again. Of course, some of the Lords argued. Renly, a few protested, and _surely_ not Stannis. He quelled these complaints by reaffirming that it was what his father would have decided.

"Lord Stark," Came the gruff voice of a Skinchanger representative, "Us Skinchangers have been discussing amongst ourselves. We want to move further south. Our abilities give us a fair chance to spy on these Lions. When you reach these… Lands of Rivers we will have information aplenty for you."

"Aye," Robb agreed, "That is a fair idea. One third of your number will scout just beyond Harrenhal. Another third will do the same for Riverrun. A small group of our men shall accompany and direct you towards these strongholds." He stared at the border of the Westerlands on the map. "The final group is to begin pressing along the Westerland border. I do not know where the Imp took my Lady mother, but I will have her back in safety." They would liberate the Riverlands, he decided, before marching on whichever castle held the woman. Robb could not stomach worrying for the safety of his father, mother, and siblings. Hopefully rescuing his mother would ease his anxieties. Not much more could be planned until they were positioned in the Riverlands and the Wargs returned with game-changing information. Except for one thing. "Our Westerly Fleet is still mostly at the Wall with House Dustin's strength. I would like a raven sent to for it to be dispatched on patrol across the Northern coast. Lady Mormont, could Bear Island also aid in this mission with its long boats?"

"Aye, my Lord." She answered with a firm nod. Grizzled, white hair shaking every which way. Dacey Mormont, Lady Mormont's pretty, eldest daughter affirmed that a raven would be sent to Bear Island immediately after the meeting.

When Robb turned to Marlon Manderly he found himself addressed before a word left his lips. "My Lord," He withdrew a letter from his doublet and passed it across the table to the Heir of Winterfell. The Stark lad wasted no time reading its contents. "My brother has already been forced to man White Harbor for a potential attack. With the Order of the Weirwood predominantly stationed at the Stepstones we are trying to build more ships. That is why so few men were sent to supplement your ranks."

"What news are we not privy to, Lord Stark?" Bolton asked cautiously.

"Since I summoned my banners at Winterfell a host of pirates have amassed on the Bite." Robb answered, more tension building behind his eyelids. "Clearly they sense weakness given the coming war. I imagine they wish to retaliate after all the ground we have taken on the Stepstones." He nodded at Ser Marlon. "The Order of the North will aid White Harbor as needed. I only ask that House Manderly neutralize this situation as quickly as possible. If we are to have any hope of taking King's Landing I will need the easterly fleet to land in the Crownlands."

"Yes, my Lord," Ser Marlon said, "We will handle this situation. Ravens have already been sent to the Vale seeking assistance."

Robb wasted no time ending the meeting. Only pausing to determine what quantities of food would be retrieved from the centralized storage systems to feed his growing army. Leaving hurriedly he entered his large tent with a sigh of relief. "Milord," A small peasant boy sat down by the brazier squeaked. Turning, Robb stared at him in shock. "I apologize my Lord, but the Targaryen Princess bid me to give you a message." He looked overwhelmed and nervous, "She said that tonight is the night. That you must meet her at a nearby Weirwood. Something about dressing finely, and bringing two of your most loyal Lords."

He was shocked, to say the least. Could it truly be time for them to wed? To unite as man and wife? Things that should have been truly joyous had an odd way of occuring during the bleakest of moments. The small boy, Gydeon, helped him to dress well. Then as Robb waited the child scurried about fetching Roger Ryswell and Dacey Mormont. Both were capable riders, and given his lack of prior interaction with them he hoped the intimacy of such a ceremony might change that. Telling the guard to feed the boy and give him a safe place to rest the three began to ride quickly west with a small company of guards. Leaving strict orders behind that the rest of the camp should march after them at first dawn.

OOOO

Bran woke in a surprising amount of comfort, though he still jumped. That proved to be a wrong move, for a wound on his abdomen screamed in protest. Hissing at the pain, the lad leant back down against the pillows. Memories flitted through his head. Taking a ship separate of Arya, Myrcella, and Cynthea. Sansa and Jeyne sacrificing themselves as diversions. Pirates attacking his ship on its way to Dorne. Being stabbed in the gut. Storms. Then there were more flashes. A withered Maester treating his wounds. A maiden who while comely was certainly no beauty feeding him broth. That same maiden lying in bed beside him as bare as the day she had been born.

He wondered if these were dreams, or truly happened. If so, the lad could not imagine the ramifications of having lost his virginity while unwell. As these troublesome thoughts consumed him Bran heard the door open. Standing there was the same young woman from the hazy memories. "You are awake, my love." She smiled at him, arms laden with materials. He felt his throat tighten in a most unpleasant way. "Do not worry. You are safe from the Lannisters here at Griffin's Roost, Brandon Stark." A hand went to rest on his sweaty forehead.

"This-," Bran choked, "Is not app-appropriate, my Lady?" He worried at her un-Ladylike way of addressing a stranger as 'love.' Carefully Bran thought back to his lessons with Luwin. Griffin's Roost? The seat of the Conningtons. Lords who had fought for the Targaryens and lost much of their former power in the elevation of House Baratheon to the monarchy. No longer Lords, and far less wealthy Bran recalled. That was all he could remember for such a weakly House did not figure prominently in lessons regarding the southern political system.

"Call me Alynne, Brandon," The comely lass smiled softly, "I have told you so many times. I am Alynne to you. Soon enough we shall wed, and you will call me wife. My brothers will be proud of me for having tied myself to a Stark. You are far better than any match they could have arranged otherwise." Bran felt terror in his stomach. For the moment he was beneath her repugnant control. Without answers regarding what had happened since he had left King's Landing. Then there was the threat of marriage which had pooled from her own lips. Would her brothers murder and blame him for the defilement of their sister? He felt physically ill at the thought of wedding such a conniving young woman. One who would prey on a barely conscious Lord and blatantly speak of her plans to use him as a tool for better prospects.

"No," He protested weakly, "This is wrong. W-Why wou-."

A cold look filtered into her blue eyes at this protestation. She began to fiddle with the objects in her hands. "You are still so unwell. More milk of the poppy, I reckon." He remembered glimpses then. How she drugged him whenever he put up an argument. Bran was stronger now, he tried to struggle against it, but in the end she won. The Stark lad slipping into darkness as the ambitious, older girl stared at him covetously.

OOOO

Arya stared out at the water for a long moment. Everything was grey, roiling, and windy. The whores often told her how blue Pentos was in the summer. Yet apparently in autumn storms rocked the Narrow Sea. Then, before the madam could grow too upset with her absent mindedness, the Stark girl returned to her sums. Since her boat was forced to dock in Pentos she had taken any work possible. Though her reputation and marriageability would be ruined if anyone knew Arya was working in a brothel, she could hardly care. Food, housing, and saving for a bribe was the only thing keeping her from going mad. Worrying constantly over what happened to her family in Westeros while she found herself stranded. "You have done good work this month, Arra," The thickly accented voice of her employer sounded suddenly.

She turned to glance upon the woman. Lella was the daughter of a powerful Magister, and oversaw the brothels owned by her family. The Stark girl had often wondered about how such women could manage to thrive in an industry which catered to men's pleasures. Her mistress had proven many misconceptions on Arya's part wrong within that month alone. Whores could capture secrets during orgasm if they were good enough. Could poison powerful men at their most vulnerable during the throes of passion. Not to mention that they would always be in demand like wine, or food. Though that was where the danger came into play. Except for a rare few, most prostitutes could be replaced easily given the high supply of destitute young women and potential slaves in Essos. Already one girl had been mutilated by Lella and turned onto the streets for rising above her station. A small drawstring purse of coins was settled at the girl's elbow as her mistress took the now balanced book of accounts. "Thank you," Arya nodded stiffly, reaching to grab her wages. Lella's soft hand slapped down atop the girl's. Holding it tightly in place.

"You are beautiful and clever. If you chose to stay here, in Pentos, I could use you as a spy. Men would gladly trade their heads for a single taste of a cunt like yours. To say that they fucked a beautiful woman from a place so exotic as the North." Those eyes were hungry, another finger traced towards Arya's doublet. "Just let me take a look at your wares. So I can see what I have to work with."

"No thank you, Madam Lella," Her voice was firm, and she stood to both feet. "I plan to leave by the time another ship North passes through. Apparently this storm will be over within the next two months."

A sly smile spread across Lella's lips. Arya had the horrible feeling that she played into a trap. "Sweetling," The older woman purred, "You are so deliciously innocent. Braavos has spies all throughout Pentos and controls every ship. If a pretty, little Northern Lady were to try to leave, with war all but declared, what do you think would happen? They will happily capture you and whore you out for their own profit. Or torture you until the name of your House slips from those rosy lips. Besides. They have blocked off all trade with the Riverlands, North, and Vale. Stay here, beneath my protection. Let the men fight their wars while you enjoy yourself here." Painted lips crept close to the young woman's ear. "Let me show you how much fun you can have bouncing on a nice, big, thick-."

"Thank you for your information, Madam Lella," Arya cut her off with a falsely genuine smile. "I will try to make plans that do not involve Braavosi or Pentoshi ships once the storm ends." They both knew that would not be possible. A full on war was being waged between Lys, her families' fleets, and pirates. Tensions were growing amongst the Free Cities as a result which meant that the Disputed Lands were rife with violent sellswords. Adding to the fact that she personally knew how unsafe it was to travel the Narrow Sea with pirates being pushed out of the Stepstones. Now Braavos was no longer an option either. Not to mention the whispers she had begun to hear that the Braavosi Fleet was already sailing south to take the Stepstones for the Iron Bank. Settling the matter once and for all.

"Regardless, we both know you will be staying longer than planned." Those eyes suddenly became cruel, "I cannot have an accountant who dresses like a man. It unsettles the clients. Dira will find you suitable clothing. See her before you go." With that, Lella left.

Sighing at the setback, Arya did as bidden. Stepping into Dira's supply rooms. "Disrobe," The old crone ordered. Unhappily, the Stark girl stripped so that the beady-eyed bitch could take measurements. "For the meantime," Dira croaked out, handing over some spare, silky gowns and shifts. "I shall have more clothing for you by the end of next week."

"I won't have anything that exposes my cunt or tits, Dira. Remember that." The Stark girl proclaimed boldly. Her duties were as an accountant. The customers did not need to amble drunkenly in mistaking her for the wares. The woman shot her perpetually foul eyes in Arya's direction before spending the next hour marking suitability of colours and measurements. All-in-all the fabrics were nowhere near as nice as the gowns she had been forced to abandon back in King's Landing. Though still she mused it would be nice to have pretty-ish clothing once more. Especially to distract merchants as she argued prices in the Pentoshi markets on Warrior's Days.

Dressing in a forest green, silky dress the girl forced the other, cheaply stitched articles of clothing in a sack, then fled for freedom. She ignored the squeals, whispers, and pants of whores as they all practiced their craft better than any whore in Westeros ever could. The dying light struck her face as she swept down the streets. Arya could avoid catching the attentions of most men when she dressed in trousers with her dark hair pulled back. Intimidation had a way of thinning out the herd of prospective suitors. Though now, in a flowing dress, she was subjected to much attention. Pentos was even worse than King's Landing. Men had at least recognized that the daughter of a High Lord was off limits. Now Arya knew what it meant to be without the protection of armies or titles. So she bore the whistles, japes, and attempted gropings while remembering it all could be worse. At least the girl could wield weapons effectively, unlike the majority of her gender.

"Jocasta," Her exhausted voice greeted the beautiful Princess. They all had agreed it would be best not to use their names. Especially so for Myrcella. Nothing good would come of three young women trapped in Pentos being discovered as daughters of powerful lineages. Given that they only had a, very, large bag of Dragons Arya always kept hidden on her person for emergencies it also meant they needed to work. The first week had been spent scouring Pentos for decent employment. Due to her looks and education Myrcella was plucked up as an assistant for a fabric peddler. To Arya's surprise the older girl apparently had the makings of a vicious merchant. Only the other day she had arrived as her friend was swindling a man into purchasing large bulks of cheap material.

"Lucinda," Myrcella greeted with equal amounts of tiredness. Her stand had already been locked up which was no doubt due to how long Arya was forced to stay behind for measurements. They were almost back home along the slummy side of the waterfront, prime positioning to look for friendly, Northern ships, that seemingly did not exist in Pentos, when a passing hand drew Arya's ire. Groping was simply a fact of life in the blastedly lecherous city though Myrcella was gripped by the hair while another pox-scarred man wasted no time cupping her cunt through the thin dress. The Baratheon Princess handled it expertly despite having trained for so little time. With a sharp move she rammed her elbow into the face behind causing the offender to stumble back in surprise.

Arya closely followed that up by removing a dagger hidden on her person. The molester was rapidly backed into a stand behind him as she unwaveringly levelled the weapon at his throat. "Well done," Came an overbearing voice. Full of charisma, inarguably so, yet also rife with that repulsive hunger all men seemed to have. The daughter of Ned Stark could already tell that the spectator was a whoremongering drunkard from some remote region of the world. Kicking her hostage in the knee, prompting a sickening crack to resound, she turned to find a man sitting in the shade beneath a tree. Heavily muscled arms were propped behind his head as he rested with both boots propped on the table. "You have done me a splendid favour there."

"How so?" Arya asked with a shocking amount of calm. Essosi lotharios like this one preyed on women with easily inspired passions. A cold, glacial demeanor was the best way to avoid waking up in bed with an older man who reeked of Dornish Red and musk.

"Men who can be stopped even as they slobber in pursuit of two comely, sweet cunts are not fit to serve in the Second Sons." He answered with bravado. Arya wanted to punch the stupid fucker's grin clear off of his face. Though she knew such urges were unwise. The Second Sons were notoriously effective and some Starks had even served within the ranks. The scars which criss-crossed this warrior's body indicated that she herself would be marred in the process of defeating him.

"I thought Pentos was barred from hiring any Sellswords after they sued for peace with Braavos?" Myrcella asked with a surprised tone.

The man eyed her rudely. "We are recruiting. Though I do not stoop to fill my ranks with western maidens." A pause hung thick in the air, "We are always willing to welcome more bed warmers. I do not normally hunger for yellow heads, but _you_ can feel free to ask for me before we leave Pentos." This was directed at Arya. "It is always fun to break in the wild ones…"

"What is your name?" Arya asked the next question.

He smiled as if a victory had just been won. "Mero, but I am also called the Titan's Bastard." Each syllable was filled with a lusty edge. Like he was stroking the air with his cock. Her dagger was soon wobbling in the trunk of the tree just above his head. In shock the man slipped backwards onto his stupid arse.

"I will remember your name, Mero. When I hear of your failed campaign in the Disputed Lands that name will bring me great joy. Remember as you die that Lucinda Snow would have been a splendid warrior, but that you made the mistake of thinking her a camp follower." With that Arya guided her new friend by the elbow as they melted into the crowds.

Both of the young women were quiet as they grew nearer to their home. Doubtlessly making sure that no more gropers lay in wait, or that the Titan's Bastard was not trailing behind. Finally the two came to a stop in the stone slums which were often filled with passing merchants. Increasingly, Braavosi soldiers had been flowing into the widely vacant apartments. Rotating out as more of the Iron Fleet docked in the Bay of Pentos. Sighing, Arya noted that Cynthea was still at work. The girl had become a shoe shiner and jack-of-all-trades. Spending so much time under the sun that she was darker than both of her tanned companions combined. Her part time job fishing on the bay had left the Frey girl with sunkissed, golden hair. Arya imagined that if they returned to Westeros anytime soon it would have been far easier to marry off her, increasingly pretty, friend than before.

Upon entering the communal courtyard of their dismal, squallorful abode the pair noted that Cynthea was wrapped around an older Bravo. Finally, as they peered from the shadows, he left the Lady to pack up her shining kit. "If I were not working in a brothel I would lecture you about protecting your maidenhead," Arya intoned mockingly as she slipped into the light. Cynthea, to her benefit, did not startle. Simply tossing the rag over one shoulder. A loud bang sounded as an old crone emptied her laundry tub nearby. Filthy water running out onto the cobbles. The woman stared at them with an uncomfortable intensity.

All three of the girls quickly moved upwards to their shared apartment. A sparse, scummy area with one large room. It was not wise for three attractive, Westerosi Ladies to strut about Pentos together in the open. That was the sort of thing which tended to draw negative attention. In a quick move Cynthea dumped a bag of pennies on the table. "I only got this much today, but the Bravo taught me some nifty sword fighting tricks today…"

Arya settled a box on the table after having retrieved it from the hiding place. Myrcella gracefully tossed the Pentoshi equivalent of a Stag on the table. The Stark girl outdid the Princess with a Dragon's worth of coins. "We have enough to feed ourselves again, but we need to dig into my savings to make all the rest," Arya sighed forlornly.

"That means we are back to tumbling," Myrcella hissed out. In Pentos the wealthy merchants lived easy lives. Though the poor often had to go into acting, tumbling, prostitution, or other areas of entertainment. Now that the three of them were poor in Pentos it seemed they too would need to join one of the local tumbling companies. "We can filter through on our days off. There is a man I met whilst selling fabrics this week. Our looks will give us a foot in, but it will be hard work from here on out."

"I might wind up tumbling full time," Cynthea responded, 'Shoe shining will never be enough." They tucked away the meager savings before the Frey girl settled the supper she had scrounged up that day on the table. Arya decided then to share with her companions what she had learned from Madam Lella that day.

"We suspected it would be the case, Lucinda," Myrcella said. "This port is full of spies for Braavos. No ship other than pirates would stop here. Even the merchant tells me that lumber trade has halted from the North. Riverlands crops are being boycotted. The Vale is just across the Narrow Sea and we have yet to say any of their ships here."

"We will need to move through the Disputed Lands," Arya nodded in agreement. "Though if a war between Braavos, Lys, and any other Free Cities breaks out it means we need to be prepared for fighting. I say we stay another fortnight at least, while you continue practicing with your war hammer, Jocasta." All of them went silent for a long while after that bleak announcement.

All of them feeling more miserable than ever before.

OOOO

Myranda Royce was no fool. Brash too. So it would have been unsurprising to the other Ladies-in-Waiting that when they arrived at Harrenhal during war she took charge immediately. Most had been too cowed by her personality when she claimed to have been given total command by Lady Sansa. Any others like Jocelyn Dustin soon recognized that Harrenhal needed a strong figurehead. Much unlike the somewhat inept Butterwell or Wode heads did not seem up to the task.

The first order of business had been ordering the peasants to bring all of their crops into Harrenhal with the help of soldiers. Destroying whatever could not be harvested. Noting that she owed Edmure Tully no fealty as well as hearing that he had already begun moving forces near the Golden Tooth, Myranda retained most of Sansa's soldiers instead. Sending only one-thousand men to Riverrun with the hopes that the Tully heir might decide against guarding such a hopeless region. Of the remaining nine-thousand Myranda used them to keep the Mountain away from the God's Eye. When ravens arrived from nearby castles seeking help she loaned her surplus men out in exchange for promissory notes of debt.

Hence, as news began pouring in that morning of Riverrun's besieged status, the south-eastern Riverlands were still a bubble of stability. Thanks in no small part to Myranda Royce's cleverness in preserving the forces of Harrenhal. "We have received a raven from Fairmarket," The elderly Maester said in his cautious tone, "Lady Johanna Tully has assumed charge of the Riverlands now that her husband is trapped under siege in Riverrun. She claims that Houses Frey, Vypren, and Lychester are not acknowledging her ravens."

"Small surprise there," Bethany Blackwood remarked with a scoff. The other Ladies in Arya Stark's court had taken a deep interest in what was going on given that all of their home regions would soon be plagued by war. As such they regularly sat in on all of Myranda's meetings. "I have never heard a good thing about the Freys and it is common knowledge that the Vyprens follow the Twins more closely than Riverrun. Why would Lychester not send men though, Maester? I thought a Vance, or some other man had been put in charge of Lysa Tully's household?"

"It is suspected that, after learning of the threat to Pinkmaiden, Markus Piper abandoned Lychester, and returned home with his men. The castle still fell to Tywin Lannister all the same of course." The Maester explained.

"Regardless," Ser Wyllis Wode, who often visited these discussions in his older brother's stead, interjected sternly. "Lysa Lychester has sent ravens of her own." He tossed the scroll over to Myranda. "She claims to be pregnant, that her husband is nearing death, and that the Lychester lands are her own. The insane bitch has even demanded that House Wode answer her call to banners. That as a born Tully she is a more suitable substitute for Lady Paramount than Lady Johanna while Lord Hoster and Ser Edmure are trapped in Riverrun." Lord Butterwell affirmed that he too had received such messages.

"Have any followed her orders? To the best of your knowledge?" Myranda interjected.

"My men and I have been working with our westerly neighbors," Lord Butterwell acknowledged, "Harvesting crops, training soldiers, and trying to convince Houses of import to abandon their keeps in favour of Harrenhal. The Smallwoods and Rygers are moving here with crops, soldiers, defenseless peasants, and anything of value as we speak." His lips tightened, "House Goodbrook is firmly allied with Lysa Lychester now."

"With their full strength committed to ours we shall have nearly thirteen-thousand men. Excepting the five-thousand dedicated to protecting Trident's Gate. Scouts have been reporting that Tywin Lannister has twenty-five-thousand men. The Kingslayer allegedly has fifteen-thousand." Lelia Elesham was deadly with a spear, and even better at logistics. Myranda depended heavily on the Lady from the Paps already. "We need more men to handle Tywin Lannister alone. Especially if Jaime Lannister sends reinforcements before they reach Harrenhal."

"Scouts are claiming he has turned south for Stony Sept. How much more time will that give us, Lord Ambrose?" Myranda asked emotionlessly in response. Her control of Harrenhal very well might have saved the disorganized, quarrelsome Riverlands. Now was simply a matter of keeping control of everything. At least until Robb Stark arrived from the North and Brynden Tully sorted out recent reports of a brewing, pro-Baratheon faction in the Vale.

"At least a fortnight, at best a month. Stoney Sept is a mighty fortress now that Brynden Tully spent so many years building it into a city. Strong walls and a stronger position. Refugees are fleeing out the back into Ryger lands with whatever harvests they can find on the way. We will benefit from the extra time allotted by Tywin Lannister's focus on Stoney Sept. The Vances of Atranta have not been communicating with us. Either they will remain neutral, or side with us. Which would be a boon since they command much land with eight-thousand men. I do not foresee the Vances attending a slaughter such as the one that is ought to happen at Stoney Sept."

"We have not received any messages from the Darrys or Mootons?" Myranda asked, trying not to feel panicked.

"I travelled out to visit Darry as you requested," Jocelyn Dustin was a fair enough rider. She also had been with Arya Stark longer than any of the other Ladies, and as such was as good a fighter as many men. Myranda lacked strong, male figureheads at Harrenhal, until more Riverlords arrived at least. So it had been simple to deduce that Lady Jocelyn could prove herself useful in diplomatic trips to the less chaotic eastern Riverlands. "Our loaned soldiers are all that kept the Mountain from ravaging the Darry lands and peoples. Lord Raymun died at the Mummer's Ford. Little Lord Lyman has been brought beneath our charge. A steward is now sending whatever crops and soldiers still can be spared. Much of Darry's strength was committed to Edmure Tully."

"The Mootons have sent us no word," The Maester spoke up. "Lady Eleanor _has_ been wedded to Moredo Rogare recently. Unfortunately, both of them are presently in Myr. Lord Rogare is now the leading Ambassador of Trade for the Assembly of Riverlords. Lord Mooton is a known coward, and I fear he will not summon our call to arms now that Lady Eleanor is temporarily beyond Tully reach."

"That is about three-thousand swords at least we direly need," Lady Lelia protested, "It is unjust that we stand defiant against Tywin Lannister, but Lord Mooton does not defend his own lands. Even Hayford has given word that the Knight of Sow's Horn is sparing us one-thousand men, and they are not yet even officially sworn to House Tully!"

Everyone looked to Myranda, and she realized this was the crossroads. No longer could the long widowed woman wait for powerful men to intervene in this war. Her's was now the preeminent voice at Harrenhal. "Lady Sansa ordered the training of this region's young women moons ago. Lord Wode, I task you with investigating the level of training of these 'Red Roses' as well as to determine how many of them there are." Protests broke out from men around the table. Myranda waited for them to calm. "I have been given authority over this keep by _both_ Lady Sansa and Lady Arya. We _need_ more soldiers. If those women can fight half so well as Lady Arya's other Ladies-in-Waiting then they will make all of the difference."

"I will do as you have asked," Lord Wode acknowledged sullenly. Even he could not deny the truth in her point.

"Now," She stared, "We have secured enough food for a siege. I fear that as much of the southern Riverland's strength as can be preserved shall be matched to our own. Though it is true that more men are needed if there is to be any hope against Tywin Lannister." Myranda nodded to Barbara Bracken and Bethany Blackwood. The two had, much to the surprise of all, grown far closer in recent weeks. Especially given that they were the only two Riverwomen present in Lady Arya's court. "You two must travel north before Gregor Clegane breaks beyond Riverrun. Together the pair of you must convince your quarrelsome families to work together. Ask them to coalesce forces at the Frey border."

"Lady Jocelyn. You have already travelled so much," Her voice was apologetic, " But I need for you to travel to Trident's Gate. From there take a fleet of fast ships to Fairmarket. There will be a note that I need you to deliver to Lady Tully. One that is too sensitive to risk delivering by raven. From there immediately travel to Seagard. Ask that the Mallisters travel south to meet their forces with the Brackens and Blackwoods. We will need them to send at least two-thousand men. It is my hope that between us at their southern border, and Robb Stark coming from the Neck we can strongarm the Freys and Vyprens into sending arms as is their duty." Now Myranda turned to Lelia, "You will travel with Jocelyn, but at Tridents Gate you will head for the Vale. If it is safe head for the Eyrie. I need at the very least to have accurate correspondences with Brynden Tully. The upstarts must be shooting all of his ravens down."

"Are there any other suggestions?" She asked the other women then, "Before I send you all off on your missions?"

"I remember once that my father told me of a skirmish he saw won against savages in the Vale," Lady Lelia said. "He spoke of how Lord Yohn Royce laid traps behind in foothills that were more familiar to his own men. By the time battle came the First Men forces were nearly halved. Can you not do that as lands empty before the Lannister host arrives?" She stared at the surprised faces around her. "Why not lay pits there, or set up trebuchets in these woods here? If the Dornish could fight the Targaryens so effectively with such tactics, why should the Rivermen not be able to?"

"That is a fair point, Lady Elesham," Ambrose Butterwell agreed, "I am unsure of how effective it might be. Though we certainly do have more time to implement such plots with Tywin Lannister's movement towards Stoney Sept…"

"I also have an idea of my own, Lady Royce," Lord Wode spoke out. "Why do we not send two-thousand men to Maidenpool. I have met Lord Mooton. He is indeed a coward. If a force of men demanded that he yield them forces, the fool would surely do so. Better that we demand such a thing of him before a Lannister or Baratheon can do the same."

"Gather the details for me regarding the Red Roses," Myranda agreed, "Then march with two-thousand men to Maidenpool as quickly as you can." With that she dismissed them all. Sending even the Maester away to keep tally of the flood of incoming food stores.

She did not allow herself to succumb to the insecurities of a woman playing at a man's role though. Myranda reminded herself that she was a Royce. With that affirmation at the front of her mind the confident, buxom Lady returned to planning for war.

OOOO

Next Chapter: Knowledge from the Tenth City.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen: Knowledge from the Tenth City.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

She remembered how Lord Wull once called both Robb and herself summer children. Grasping the surprised man by his jerkin and threatening him with a Lyseni dirk in response. Now, that anger long cooled, Sansa Stark knew he was right. Just to be a Stark did not give her an inherent understanding of what winter truly meant. Winter was not just snow, hunger, death, and cold. It could exist in the spring, fall, as well as the dying days of summer. Winter existed in every man's heart, cock, and mind. Always at threat of being unleashed onto the world at large given the right sequence of events.

As they punched her in the stomach she gained an inkling of understanding. When the entire court watched silently, some lecherous, Crownland Lords even cheering in support, Sansa truly learned the dangers of being a lone wolf in winter. Then Meryn Trant tore her dress to shreds. The soiled shift beneath revealing her body to the Red Keep's inhabitants. Winter could take _everything_ from those it decided to victimize. _Everything_. "Her snatch is as red as blood!" Joffrey rejoiced jauntily in his whiny voice. There went her sense of self-respect, as all pride and dignity was forcibly flung from the window.

Stood there before the Iron Throne she still refused to sob.

So they punched her in the stomach again. The reputedly gallant Kingsguard betraying their true colors in the process. Trant eagerly wrapped one cold, gauntlet-clad hand about her throat. His other one tugging into her ratty, messy head of hair. Joffrey all-but stroked himself through his trousers at the sadistic scene. The nineteen-year-old proving himself to be nothing short of a new Mad King. His subjects watching the whole while as another tyrant was born. Sansa acknowledged what was likely to happen. If a Farring girl could be defiled, beaten, and practically murdered then the daughter of an alleged traitor would be given no mercy.

"My brother will murder you all!" She finally cackled aloud, "He will storm these walls and do tenfold unto you all as was done unto me!" Feeling a bit mad she ignored them. Stumbling up the steps to the Iron Throne as Meryn Trant tried to catch her again. "Robb Stark will have your daughters stripped naked. Raped by the savage Northmen. Your father's shall be locked in the Black Cells, and your mothers fucked to death by Umber Giants!" Now came her desperate punch, "All because you allowed his grace to _murder_ your only hostage!" Trant caught her again. She was smothered against his painfully sharp armour as he punched her again.

Though even the Kingsguard could do nothing about the uproar finally directed at the king by the thoroughly shocked court. She had reminded them what they stood to lose. Joffrey was no slouch when it came to executing his sadistic pleasures. The next day he merely had the court dismissed before she was dragged out of her small, new chambers and thoroughly beaten. This happened the day after and the day after that. By the time Cersei decided to show her face again every inch of Sansa's body was black and blue. Showing through the torn rags which did a piss job of covering her battered body.

"Your father has agreed to announce his role in attempting to overthrow the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Lady Sansa." She announced, green eyes glinting poisonously. "In a fortnight you will be standing beside him at the Sept of Baelor."

"So that all of King's Landing can see me in my true state? See all of the beatings given to me by your son's loyal dogs." She spat on the floor, ignoring Varys' warnings. The Spider was no saint. He likely only wanted her to live through this hell for some unspoken agenda. Sansa did not possess enough energy to smile like a Lady as Joffrey beat her to death. "They will _rage_ against this Keep. I am loved in this city."

"Yes." Cersei sniffed, "Perhaps the useless legions of cripples and whores will riot. All the better so the City Watch can skewer them out of existence. Then you will be a Stark whore, with no influence to your name. Destined to remain a hostage until my brother is returned to me."

"We did not take your brother you _daft_ bitch!" Sansa snarled. Boros Blount, the fat fuck, was only too happy to slap her in the back of the head.

"We?" Joffrey quoted her in an exaggerated fashion. The young man's eyes raking greedily over her semi-naked form. "You are alone here. Your siblings as good as dead wherever you sent them."

"My brother, Robb lives." Sansa felt her blackened heart burn with tenderness. She imagined Rickon in Winterfell. They were both safe. So long as there were Starks with influence still around to fight the Lannisters, Sansa could die with a smile on her face.

"When he falls in his first battle," Joffrey spat violently, "I will give you his head as a wedding gift." A dark smile crossed his wormy face, "His pretty Targaryen wife will be my whore." Sansa's face fell at the sudden implication of what Joffrey had just said. "Yes, your brother wedded Shiera Seastar a month ago. He must think it will give him a claim to _my_ throne!" A smile spread across her face. So bright it ached. Every Targaryen loyalist in Westeros would clamor to support her brother once he proved himself in battle. Perhaps Shiera was not Margarey Tyrell or Arianne Martell, but she did have some power to her name.

"Your handmaids have taken control of Harrenhal in your absence. They are assembling forces to prepare for battle with my father." Cersei interjected. "You will write to the castellan. Informing him of his obligation to surrender unconditionally to the Westerland army."

"I think not," Sansa answered coldly.

Another beating followed that defiance. So vicious that she worried over internal bleeding after Trant finally dragged her away to the small, windowless chambers. Sleeping quarters suitable for a Traitor's daughter. "My, my," The Spider's voice came softly as she was thrown to the ground before her narrow bed. A bed upon which he had been sat waiting. "You should not be trying to antagonize them so." Standing, he helped her up into a steaming tub that waited nearby. "The handmaidens are all spies," He informed her in a sad voice, "Planted by Queen Cersei and other parties to monitor your movements."

"What do you want?" Sansa asked suddenly, "None of this is out of the kindness of your heart. Those trunks were seized from a carriage I sent to Harrenhal ahead of my planned escape. Why did you bother to retrieve them?"

"Bathe yourself," Lord Varys twisted his fat face down at her, "Eat when they bring you food. Dress yourself as a Lady of your status ought to. Your brother may be a traitor, but he is still a traitor with thousands of men and a Targaryen bride to his name." The hint was subtle, but Sansa cursed herself for not deciphering it all sooner. The Spider had been a Targaryen Loyalist, and he _still_ was a Targaryen Loyalist after so many years. She remembered her father resigning as Hand over the planned assassination of Danaerys Targaryen. Wondering why Varys would not simply help the Mad King's daughter. Only to realize that the manipulative man was hedging his bets. Forcing any of her sudden realization off of her face Sansa stood. Removing whatever was left of her clothing.

Predictably Lord Varys did not ogle the exposed flesh. She was filthy from beatings and the Black Cells. Of course, he was also a eunuch. "I suppose I will bathe, Lord Varys," Sansa drawled, "Perhaps my tedious life of imprisonment will be easier to tolerate clean." With that he left. A smile flashed over her face. The most fundamental aspect of Lord Varys' motivations had been revealed to her. So long as Shiera did not die, Sansa supposed the man would have a reason to keep her safe.

Feeling a bit, the smallest bit possible though, safer, Sansa eagerly bathed in the hot water. Scrubbing away months worth of filth. Most importantly, after cleaning her hair, the eldest daughter of House Stark took a moment to tend to her mouth. Utterly relieved that the white teeth had not rotted out during the long period of neglect. Feeling cleaner than she ever had in her life Sansa dried off quickly whilst trying not to notice how the water had turned a disgusting mixture of brown, red, and green. Picking gingerly through the materials in her trunks a sudden flash of metal surprised the young woman. Lying there amidst a bed of silks was the ball she had found in Winterfell's Crypts so long ago.

The very same one she had managed to open months ago.

OOOO

Shiera Seastar felt uncomfortable. For the first time in many, many years. Not since her thirteenth name day had the woman felt so unsettled. By the lust men felt for her. By the knowledge possessed by her voraciously hungersome brain. By the power commanded from her royal title. Now as she walked the Northern camps it was strange to realize that having been without true strength for so many years changed her. Taught her _just_ how precarious the political scene in Westeros could be. Even standing in front of the Twins as the new Lady of Winterfell, Robb Stark her husband, with the Trident's Gate a seat of her own making, she understood the value of cautiousness like never before.

This was not just a bridge. There were lions to the west and south-east. Her husband's family either missing or held hostage by those same feline predators. Baratheon stags tramped wildly about in search of the crown. All while roses writhed ambitiously in the Reach and the Vipers of Dorne bided their time. Walder Frey was the key to chaos in the Riverlands. Shiera knew that he needed to be dealt with effectively before the rest of Westeros could be engaged in battle. Westeros was close to within the grasp of another Targaryen again, albeit wedded to a Stark. All her effort would be for naught if Tywin exploited his marriage ties to the Freys and attacked them from the back. "Remember what I told you, love," She whispered pleadingly in Robb's ear as they walked forwards.

"I can handle this," He tightened his grip on her fingers in response. They had grown closer than ever before after that wedding amongst the Weirwood trees. Lovemaking beneath matrimony in the evenings and mornings exposing more of her intimacy than she had ever allowed herself to share before. Vulnerabilities only a doting husband or favored child could ever be allowed to witness. Together they continued to walk until arriving beneath the agreed upon pavillion. Well within range of House Frey's archers, but Walder Frey's positioning would give the Starks ample opportunity to murder the Lord of the Crossing. This was not her first dealing with the ill-reputed House, but it would be her first time meeting Walder Frey.

Her first impression was that he happened to be so terribly old. With the look of a weasel about him. Bundled in furs even though summer still had yet to fully die. "You took your sweet time getting here, boy. Though I would too…" He allowed his eyes to rake rudely over her form beneath the loose, billowy white dress. Gripping tightly as possible into Robb's hand she conveyed that he needed to remain calm. Standing beside her husband she felt the many guards around them halt. Standing regally like she had in her days at King's Landing.

"I have travelled furiously for King's Landing since the news of my father's unjust imprisonment reached my ears. Since my family, the Tullys, your bannermen were attacked by the Lannisters. After my mother was abducted by the Imp near your lands. Yet you have not travelled very far at all, Lord Frey. Why is that?" He allowed his eyes to rove over to the opposing riverbank. "Six-thousand soldiers. Yet you do not move to defend your liege?"

"Heh." Frey cackled, "I swore oaths to Baratheon as well. Am I to go breaking those now?"

"Yet you have not moved to serve Joffrey Waters either. Clearly you think that I will allow myself to be extorted in exchange for the chance to cross your bridge." Robb stood straighter, "I will not. My men nearly double your own. We have Giants, and soldiers from every region of the North. Even from Beyond-the-Wall. My Uncle Brynden will be marching from the Vale any day. I have no qualms about burning your House to ashes and stone."

"That would be a poor decision, boy," Frey barked, "It is well-known that your Uncle is facing a rebellion in the Vale. From the Belmores, Corbrays, Melcoms, Moores, and the Lynderlys for guardianship of Robert Arryn."

"Not from the Graftons." Robb rebutted callously, jaw jutting, "My Uncle is wedded to their eldest daughter. Without a port stronghold as they had during the last war, the Vale rebels will be cut down in no time at all."

"The Giants and Wildlings you have brought south will negate any boon claimed by your marriage to the Targaryen wench." Frey continued as though he had heard nothing. "No one shall agree to let their wives and daughters be raped by such vicious creatures. It only further cements the reputation Northmen possess for being savage heathens."

"Savages with Giants. Giants who could smash your gates without a moment's hesitation," Shiera smiled nastily, finally speaking. She could tell when Robb's easily stoked temper was getting the best of him. "You might think these brave Northmen savages, but at least they do not fuck their sisters above the Neck."

"Foul words from the mouth of a Lady Paramount. Though I would expect nothing less from a sorceress and the daughter of Aegon the Unworthy." He bit back with a snarl.

"You are just as filthy, Frey. I will not mind my words around your ilk." She stepped in front of Robb. "In fact, there is no need to worry about how we speak to one another at all. You hate me and I you. But we need this bridge, and you need for us to keep from turning our Giants and hardened soldiers against your paltry, six-thousand men. Accords of mutual need have been drawn from far less."

"Unfortunately, I have already drawn an accord with the Lannisters many years before this day. Family cannot be bought out…" The shining gleam in his eyes indicated that it, in fact, could be bought out. "Perhaps if you Starks had married into _my_ bloodline before this moment. So many wolf pups delivered by your trout of a mother. Yet not a _single_ one for me?"

"Lord Robb is wedded to me," Shiera snapped firmly.

"Aye," The Frey Lord jerked his head, "But you will have children. Lovely dragon pups with claims to the Iron Throne. Children who are far better catches than your husband ever was."

"Selling my children before they are even born?" Robb asked in a horrified voice. "For nothing more than to cross a bridge?"

"'To save your parent's lives, and that of your sister." Another light shined in his old face. "Speaking of which, Lady Sansa will not be betrothed much longer _if_ you win the war, will she? Such a pretty girl, with Harrenhal under her belt as well. My Walder was quite fond of her the last time she visited the Twins..." Behind him Black Walder's face grew into an ugly, lecherous grin directed Robb's way.

"The Lady Sansa is master of her own keep. Overseer of her own affairs. My husband has _no_ say in her marriage prospects." Shiera interjected quickly. She disliked how well Frey was managing to strike Robb beneath his mental armor.

"Then the Lady Arya should satisfy well enough. For all her uncouth I hear she is prettier than Lyanna Stark ever was. Less long in the face, and tall as the Starks tend to be." His crude point left Shiera reeling in disgust.

"My mother sent me a note for the Winterfell records while she was in the Vale. Lady Waynwood drew a betrothal contract between my sister and Harold Hardyng while they were all in the Eyrie." Robb's voice flashed with glee. Perhaps all of the Stark children had had to swallow stones with their betrothals, but it seemed to have leant them much negotiating power.

"I will tell you what I want then, boy," Frey snapped suddenly, "And if you do not deliver I shall be more than happy to attack you from behind as Tywin Lannister commands."

"Speak your worst, old man," Robb retorted viciously.

"Heh. I will have your eldest sister betrothed to Walder. She is a woman. Her say pales in comparison to the mighty armies you have flaunted so relentlessly in my face today. Who is the Lady of Harrenhal to deny a future King of the Iron Throne?" Then came the next blow. "Your first born shall be wedded to one of my progeny. Then there is the matter of your brother, the Young Wolf, they call him. I sent your traitor father a marriage contract only to have it slapped back in my face. Again. He shall have one of my daughters. Furthermore, once her done husband dies, I will have Lysa Lychester for my own. Not to mention that the many Lords in your company today will have the honor of warding my progeny."

Shiera slipped Robb back before he could say anything. "We are lucky to have gotten this much from the bastard," She whispered, "If he could, all your siblings would be betrothed to his spawn. Sansa can hold off against a betrothal with the Freys, but Bran will simply need to take the responsibility."

"What about our firstborn child?" Robb asked, "Are you really saying we would sell it to _him_ for a fucking bridge?"

"We are selling our child for your father, mother, and siblings. So that our own children can actually survive without fear of attack from Joffrey and the Lannisters." Shiera answered firmly. "This is war, Robb. Even with the Giants we cannot afford to destroy the Freys right now. They would bleed us to death. Then Tywin and Kevan Lannister would feast on whatever remained."

"Right now?" His voice could barely be discerned by her ears.

"Of course." She smiled darkly. "We pay the toll now. They pay it later for dereliction of duty to House Tully. You did not think I would ever allow them to walk over us like this with repercussions? After this war we will have more influence than before. Then we will deal with the Twins in whatever way is appropriate." A thoughtful pause, "Patience and humility is what has allowed the Starks to survive so many winters. That is how you will defeat the Lannisters. They will drown in their own hubris."

Robb turned with a firmly set jawline. "We will agree to your terms if the negotiations please us accordingly. I demand that you allow a Northern garrison to occupy both sides of the Twins. It would not do to have your House fall upon us from behind even if we reached an accord…"

"Of course," Frey agreed with his ever-hungry face, "We cannot have th-." He was interrupted as horns sounded in the distance. Echoing across the river. Sailing up the Green Fork were ships with masts. The three-headed Targaryen dragon roaring atop a split field of green and blue. Shiera counted quickly, noting that all but ten of her forty longships from Trident's Gate were present. Knowing her steward, which she presumed she did well enough, the Lady of Trident's Gate imagined there were at least twenty-five-hundred men crammed into those ships. Then, more surprising was when everyone noted the new legions of soldiers arriving by land. Bracken, Mallister, Blackwood, and Tully.

Shiera smiled arrogantly, "It appears that the terms of the agreement have changed. Nothing has been signed in ink. I suppose the Late Lord Frey has not gotten any quicker since the Battle of the Trident."

OOOO

Myrcella shrugged her worn shoulders. Ambling along on her way home whilst grimacing at every turn. There were the long hours at the merchant's stand spent haggling with men like no Princess should. She was good at it. The merchant often called her ruthless and unforgiving. Then every day Myrcella, Arya, and Cynthea took turns rotating through a supplemental tumbling job. Their bodies forced to twist into painful contortions at the drop of a hat. Wincing with every step the former Princess attempted to smile through the pain.

If the rumours were true, Joffrey had become the King of Westeros. Here Myrcella at least did not need to worry about being married to Walder Frey or… The thought of the spouse he had threatened her with was unfathomable. Still, this was only a half-life at best. She considered taking advantage of Arya's day off from the brothel. Fleeing from Pentos to Casterly Rock for her grandfather's protection. Leaving without giving her new friends the slightest warning. Their paths would eventually unwind from one another's sooner than later. Arya heading North where Myrcella would be held hostage if she dared to follow. Cynthea to the Vale which was under Tully charge. Not a good choice either.

Sighing tiredly at the thought of having to leave the other two soon enough, the blonde slipped into her dingy neighborhood. Instantly noting something was off upon stepping into the courtyard. A struggle had clearly taken place. Dead men lying about. The Bravo Cynthea had been so fond of spread about in puddles of blood. Nervous, Myrcella finished her knife out of its hiding spot. Slipping towards the apartment carefully. "You." A snarling voice echoed in Pentoshi, as the landlady stepped out of the shadows.

Haggling had given Myrcella an incredible mastery over the bastard language. Of course, her knowledge of High Valyrian had helped with bridging the gap. "Your friends bring disgrace to this home. Chosen as the Maidens of the Seas and the Fields. Killing soldiers when they came to bring them to the Prince's Palace. I will have you gone this instant."

Myrcella ignored the screaming woman while she collected any remaining weapons and belongings in a rucksack. Fingering the handle of her war hammer the Baratheon Princess soon stood alone in the streets of Pentos. She wondered how her friends, who were clearly foreigners, had been chosen to be deflowered by the Prince of Pentos. Then the girl quickly remembered that the sacrifices were chosen by vote. Of course everyone would choose to abandon two foreigners to be sullied. Better them than their own daughters. However, that choice meant that Myrcella would soon be in the Palace herself.

Arya had saved her life, and she would make sure to repay the favour.

OOOO

"My Lord?" Briary Tully, formerly of Grafton, spoke softly as she entered the long empty war room of the Eyrie. Her husband sat at the head of the table with a long face. Houses Belmore, Corbray, Melcom, Moore, and Lynderly had been permanent fixtures for a long while. Now a new sigil sat in their midst: Dutton. She was clever. There had been no point in hiding it from her husband. He was much too old to be impressed by an eighteen-year-old bride who hid her cleverness from him. Such a man was already proven and true in battle. A smart wife was not likely to intimidate the Blackfish. "Seventeen-thousand men?" Briary asked quietly, though it was not truly a question.

"Aye. Seventeen-thousand men stand against us and our ability to help in the coming war. Never did I imagine I would be forced to partake in the fickle politics of the Vale." He hid his face in his hands. She swept easily over to him. Massaging his shoulders tenderly.

"What did Lady Lelia Elesham have to say?" Briary asked carefully. The daughter of Gerold Grafton had been envious some moons ago when Lelia was chosen for Arya Stark's court instead. All of those feelings faded hard and fast upon witnessing the state the other woman that morning. No First Men savages plagued the mountains these days since they had been dealt with. However, Lady Lelia had risked bandits and a civil war by acting as a messenger. Her horse little better than lame after being ridden nonstop from Harrenhal to the Eyrie.

"Myranda Royce is desperate for assistance we cannot give. She has somehow managed to take charge of Harrenhal in my grand-niece's absence. Tywin Lannister is soon to pounce on Stoney Sept while I am trapped here protecting my nephew's quarrelsome lands. Edmure has been trapped in Riverrun after a crushing defeat at the Golden Tooth by Kevan Lannister. The _fool_. Catelyn is truly trapped deep in the Westerlands, though no one knows where exactly. My grand-nephew has wedded Shiera Seastar and is likely being conned by those treacherous Freys as we speak." He peered at the board, "You are a clever thing. Tell me what is weighted against us on this board."

For her faults, Briary liked to imagine she was at least an obedient wife. So long as her husband refrained from making any foolish decisions. Hence, she peered at the battle maps more carefully than before. "Why are Dutton's now against us?" The young woman wondered carefully. "Could we change their minds? With them supporting the crown we lack any connection to my father's lands…" Indeed a jagged line cut across the map between the Eyrie and Gulltown.

"Nothing we can give them. They demand I give custody of my nephew to the Corbrays and vacate the Eyrie at once." The Blackfish hissed out.

"These ships." She continued quickly on. "I have seen my father's own battle maps many times before. Is there a pirate blockade at Gulltown again?"

"At White Harbor, Skagos, and the Sisters as well. The scum of the Stepstones are retaliating now that the North, Riverlands, and Vale are ensconced in war." Her husband confirmed emotionlessly. "Lys definitely can give us no assistance, nor could they afford to return our forces. Braavos is actively seeking to wage war with the Rogares. We are alone. Trapped with nothing to do but wait out this storm."

"Fifty-thousand soldiers in the Vale. Seventeen-thousand united against us. Ten-thousand of our allies stuck behind blockades. Five-thousand men in the Stepstones. We are outnumbered by one-thousand men. Though our fortresses are certainly superior." She stared at the wooden pieces. "Almost every soldier living in the Vale is at risk of being slaughtered in this civil war."

"Yes," He finally ground out, "It weighs heavily on my mind."

"I do not have solutions to the wars which threaten us, dear husband," Briary turned back to him. "Though I can find a way to at least distract your mind from such matters. Even if momentarily." She clapped loudly before he could speak. A young man stepped into the war room. Handsome, strapping, with flesh the colour of milk. His close cut locks of hair glimmered like fiery rust. "I am your wife. Your secrets are my secrets. His name is Erik. Enjoy him, and finish deep inside of me." She wasted no time stripping from her gown. "Men with clear heads are men who win impossible wars." Her shocked husband was easily guided upwards. Soon all three of them were nude, and Brynden Tully had Erik pressed tightly into the table as his virgin ass was dominated for the first time.

Briary sat in her husband's seat, naked as could be. Happily anticipating a chance at pregnancy even though Brynden Tully was queerer than a rainbow. Searching the maps for some way, any way for them to secure the Vale before the rest of Westeros erupted into utter chaos.

OOOO

"How did it happen?" Cersei snarled, gulping her wine down greedily. She was dizzy, victorious, and so very dangerous. The most she had ever been in her whole life. Ned Stark in her dungeons, his children scattered like rats across Westeros, and that whore, _Sansa_ , little more than a slave.

"Maester Pycelle was engaged… With company at the time," Baelish spoke twistily as ever. "His mouth began to froth. Eyes exploded to bloody pulp. Ears running thick with blood. Every orifice of his body in fact. The Grand Maester's skin was little more than blackened wax by the time anyone was summoned. His company caught the sickness as well along with half of the guards who entered the room."

"Lord Varys," Cersei no longer smiled, "I am sure you can tell me whether we must be concerned about this sudden outbreak of disease. As well as who we can expect the Citadel to replace Maester Pycelle with."

"I ordered that Maester Melwys of Rosby be summoned immediately to investigate. He determined that the affliction which took Maester Pycelle was Red Death." Varys said this all with an appropriately solemn face. "A sickness from Gogossos, an island facing Sothoryos."

"How the fuck did it get here?" Janos Slynt snarled.

"Is it contained?" Ceresi cut the Commander of the Gold Cloaks off shortly.

"Yes, your grace," Varys inclined his head, "The Maester's quarters have been sealed indefinitely. As for the matter of a replacement, I will tell you as soon as my little birds hear word or whisper."

"Are there any more pressing matters which we must discuss," The Queen Regent flicked her hand dismissively at Varys.

"Yes, your grace," Petyr Baelish began with a dark smile, "I have been in contact with Braavos…"

OOOO

Whew. I finished it. School has been like a constant rope around my neck. Not to mention research. But whatevs, I have a bit of a break now. Hopefully you all keep in mind that the conflict is a bigger chessboard now. Lys and Braavos are going at it. Nowhere is safe from war in Planetos.


End file.
